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HOW, The ITlODERn magazine of Weird Tales 

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r ....... SORCERY 

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H. P. 

E. Hoffmann 

L. Sprague 
de CAMP 



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When the architects began 
Laying their audacious plan 

For the greatest pyramid of all, 

It then seemed a natural thing 
For them to inter their king 

Deep beneath that monument so tall. 

Pharaoh Khufu called a halt, 

Said those tons upon his vault 
Gave him chilis and spoilt his sleep as well 

So the engineers discreet 

Built a loftier retreat 
For the royal mummy's citadel. 

Khufu wanted higher yet; 

They his wishes quickly met 
In that greatest tomb upon the globe. 

Truth to tell, the secret hid 

Under Khufu's pyramid 
Is that Khufu was a claustrophope! 

L. Sprague de Camp 



(formerly COVEN 13) 

Jan. -Feb., 1971 



THE MOMENTARY GHOST by Carleton Grindle 

. 15 

TOWER OF BLOOD by David A. English 

. 52 

short stories 

THE DARK DOOR by Leo P. Kelley 

. 5 


. 11 

PORTRAIT OF THINGS TO COME by Leon Zeldis . . . 

. 22 


THE IDEAS by Edith Ogutsch and Ross Rocklynne 

. 24 

MISTRESS OF DEATH by Robert E. Howard 

. 32 

WIND MAGIC by Edmund Shirlan 

. 38 


THE HATE by Terri E. Pinckard 

. 44 

art director 

THE RAT AND THE SNAKE by A. E. van Vogt 

. 48 


1. BRUCE by Saliitha Grey 

. 50 

2. EMBARKATION OF EVIL by W. S. Cobun Jr. ... 

. 50 


. 51 

assistant editor 

WERE CREATURE by Kenneth Pembrooke 


THE GREAT PYRAMID OF GIZA by L. Sprague de Camp 
inside front 




staff artist 

by Anthony Sander . . 

. 2 

. 43 


WITCH WAYS by Robert E. Jennings 






by H. P. Lovecraft . . 

. 27 

GHOST TOUR by Andre Norton 

. 29 

JADE PAGODA by E. Hoffmann Price 

. 46 

. 63 


. 63 


SUPERDRAGON by Saliitha Grey inside back 




Cover: Burge (for The Momentary Ghost) 

Interior illustrations by D. Bruce Berry, Burge, Stephen Fabian, 

Steve Fritz, Robert E. Jennings, Jeff Jones, Tim Kirk. 

Hard lettering by Fritz, Burge and Jennings. 

WITCHCRAFT AND SORCERY Is published M-monthly by Fantasy Publishing Company, Inc., 1855 W. Main fit, 
Alhambra, California 91801. Editorial address: P.O. Box 13S1, Atlanta, Georgia SOSM. All stories are fictional. 
Any resemblance to actual persons or events b entirely coincidental. We assume no responsibility for unsolicited 
manuscripts or art work. All submissions should be sent to the Atlanta address and be accompaned by sufficient 
postage to insure their return. Copyright 19T0 by Fantasy Publishing Co., Inc. All rights reserved. Subscription 
rate; one year (8 issues) (3.00 In U.S.A. and most other countries. 80 cents per copy. 

This periodical Is sold only by authorised dealers and It may not be sold or distributed with any part of lti cover 
removed, nor In a mutilated condition. 






'•■■■■ ,-M 


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Welcome as lover come, thunder < 
That wear white wings and bend wheat under I 
And thrill the river through this sightless noon j 
Of Hecate's bright-scaled team that drives on June. \ 
--Anthony Sandor 

Illustration by Stephen Fabian 

fSB^^£H>:"^ -'■^■y:^^-'-^ 




When we acquired COVEN 13 from its original owners, 
we felt this editorial would be a rather easy thing to write. 
'We' are Wm. L, Crawford, who now serves as the pub- 
lisher j Jerry Burge, who is the art director, and Gerald 
W. Page who edits the magazine and has the job of writing 
an editorial to explain to you all that's happened to 
COVEN 13. 

COVEN 13 was — and is — a magazine of fantasy stories 
emphasizing supernatural horror and the macabre. Its 
stories were in the tradition of Poe, Bierce, Hoffmann, 
Machen, Blackwood, Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith, Robert 
E. Howard and A. Merrltt. The audience for this sort 
of fiction Is obviously large and the idea is to reach It. 

The founders of the magazine were on the borderline of 
success but could not carry It over In four Issues and were 
unwilling to produce the number of issues necessary to 
build the circulation to a profitable level. 

So Fantasy Publishing Co. Inc. took over. The magazine 
was analysed closely but few changes were decided on. 
COVEN 13's policy was supposed to be oriented to the 
weird tale, but too often, we decided, It ran light tongue 
in cheek fantasy. We felt it would be sufficient to strength- 
en the fiction. Stronger stories, that's all. 

So that was our major fifth-Issue change. As for other 
changes we were planning, we could make them later, 
after we were acclimated. 

How little we knew. 

Our plans to change title were pretty definite. "Coven" 
is a nice word, but its meaning is obscure. It doesn't 
really suggest to the general newsstand browser what 
sort of fiction we carry. Most abridged dictionaries dont 
even list the word. Coven doesn't inform dozens of poten- 
tial readers what the magazine is about. We planned to 
change title about the seventh or eighth issue. 

We also wanted to do something about our format. The 
science fiction and fantasy magazines started going digest 
size at the end of World War II when there were hundreds 
of fiction magazines: science fiction, fantasy, western, 
love, adventure .... The move assured display space on 
a crowded newsstand and was wise in its day. But now 
there are about 20 fiction magazines In larger formats. 
The larger magazines are now crowding the digests off 
the racks, or covering them up ho they can't be seen by 
potential buyers. Worse, digests look old fashioned. The 
result is floundering sales that cause editors to write self 
pitying editorials about how evil readers are not to buy 
their magazines. Writers, aware of the conditions, are 
beginning to write off the remaining fiction magazines as 
poor risks and look elsewhere for work. Steps have to be 

And lots of attempts to find the answer are being tried. 
Hiking the price, a favorite trick of desperate publishers, 
for example. Paperback anthologies of new stories Is 
another attempt. Flooding the market with cheaply pro- 

duced reprint magazines is yet another approach, but it 
isn't too popular with the writers who, as often as not, 
receive no payment for the reprinted stories. The trouble 
with these solutions Is that none of them solve the real 
problem, that of being seen on the newsstand. 

A magazine on a newstand has to be seen or it won't 
sell. We've felt for some time that the larger format was 
more practical as well as more modern. 

But we felt the distributor would be reluctant to go along 
with It. The, distributor is a businessman and must be 
cautious. Therefore. . . . 

Imagine our surprise when our distributor turned out 
to be a thinking man as well as a businessman. It was he 
who asked us to go ahead with our projected size and 
title change now. 

We had just completed preparation for the fifth Issue 
of COVEN 13 In the old format. It meant an added delay, 
but we agreed with his thinking and we went along with it. 

You are holding in your hands the fifth issue of COVE** 
18 under new proprietors, in a new format, with a new 

Or, if you prefer, you're holding the first issue of a 
great new magazine called Witchcraft & SORCERY. 

Either way we think you're holding a pretty good mag- 
azine. We think our writers have written some superb 
stories. We believe our artstaff is the best In the field. 
The new format gives us greater potential in every di- 
rection. We're less restricted, more up-to-date. In the 
near future we think you'll be seeing the other magazines 
in the science fiction and fantasy field copying us. 

Meanwhile, let ub know your feeling about the magazine. 
On pages 63 and 64 you'll find a reader's poll ballot. We'd 
appreciate your votes on stories and features and your 
comments on the magazine. Of course you don't nave 
to tear out the coupon if you don't want to. A plain piece 
of paper with your votes will be sufficient. Better yet, 
send us a letter. The more we know about your likes, the 
better we can design the magazine to suit you. 

Present plans call for Witchcraft St SORCERY to 
publish on a bi-monthly schedule for a while yet. Sub- 
scribers to COVEN IS will continue to receive the number 
of copies due them according to their subscription. (Sub- 
scriptions are always for number of copies, never for length 
of time.) 

So here It Is, the modern magazine of weird tales. The 
best of established writers such as Leo Kelley, H. P. Love- 
craft, E. Hoffmann Price, Robert E. Howard, Andre 
Norton and others, as well as great stories by newcomers 
such as David English, Glen Cook, Gary Brander, Carleton 
Grindle and many moje. We think you'll find it unlike any 
other magazine being published today— and we hope you 
like It. 




by Leo P. Kelley 


WHEN the waiter brought the main course and act it down In front of 
us, Professor Windrow began rubbing his hands together In eager antici- 
pation over his broiled brook trout. Just then, Lowena entered the 

I put down the glass of wine I'd been lifting to my lips and frowned. 
The Professor glanced at me with a pussled expression on his thin face. 

Heads were turning toward Lowena. Whispers like small winds 
wafted her name about the room from table to table. Eyes, mine in- 
cluded, stared at her in a mixture of awe and uneasiness. 

"What is it, Carl?" Professor Windrow asked me. "Are you M easily 
unnerved by the sight of a ravishing woman?" 

I shook my head and managed a weak smile. "She Is lovely, isn't 
she? But no, it isn't that." 

"Her lurid past then?" 

I drained my glass, "Yes. Let's say that's it." I watched her more 
across the dining room, a young man at her aide, the waiter leading 
them both to a secluded corner and a choice table on which a sign that 
said ' ' Reserved" rested beside a single red rose in a crystal vase. 

Lowena Derry, I thought. No, more properly, Lowena Young Owl. 

Derry had been her recently deceased husband's name. 
But Lowena's Indian name had been. Young Owl. 

I watched her move through the room as an animal 
moves through a part of the forest that it senses is hostile 
to its kind. Quickly. Nervously. Her white dress was 
bound by a slim girdle of scarlet that swept up in an 
inverted V to end between her breasts, ripe buds on the 
young sapling of her body. She wore white slippers and 
carried a simple white evening bag. Her hair was a jet 
waterfall that fell to touch the icy whiteness of her 
shoulders. Her equally black eyes beneath their heavy 
lashes were ebony fires blazing in the pale cauldron of 
her face, which was unmarred by any makeup. 

Professor Windrow, I noticed, as I looked away to 
avoid being seen by Lowena, had forgotten his trout. He 
was staring at Lowena with the longing that age some- 
times betrays for days gone and loves lost. 

"She's coming over here," he breathed, already rising 
in his invariably polite fashion. 

"Good evening," he said as Lowena arrived to stand 
beside our table. 

I looked up. "Hello, Lowena," I said. 
She offered me a slim hand on which no rings glittered. 
"Carl." She paused and the rather handsome young man 
beside her cleared his throat. "It's been months. You really 
must call me soon. You shouldn't forget old friends so 

"I've been busy. How have you been, Lowena?" 
A shadow seemed to dim the sun of her smile momenta- 
rily. "Tomorrow?" she asked in that gentle shy way of 
hers that endeared her to nearly everyone — even to women 
who tried to hate her for being so very beautiful. "Pro- 
mise me that you'll phone tomorrow." 

"I'm leaving town tomorrow," I told her. 
"Well, perhaps another time then. It was good seeing 
you again, Car!." She turned to the young man whom she 
had not bothered to introduce to us and they made their 
way to where a waiter was holding a chair in readiness 
for her. 

"Liar," Professor Windrow said to me. "Why did you 
tell her that? You're not leaving town tomorrow." 

"Why? I don't know. No that's not true. I do know. 
I lied because I'm afraid of Lowena." 

Professor Windrow closed his mouth on the piece of 
trout he had expertly speared with his fork and almost 
choked. After he had swallowed with some difficulty, he 
said, "You're afraid of Lowena Derry?" 

"I'm afraid of Lowena Young Owl," I told the man who 
had been my mentor, confidant and father substitute 
throughout my years in college after my own father had 
died of a unexpected angina attack. 

"Why?" he asked, in his characteristically direct fashion. 
I eouldn't refuse to tell him, not any longer. Actually, 
I badly wanted to tell someone — someone who might not 
believe me but who would, at least, listen sympathetically 
and not be likely to recommend a sanitarium. "I was 
there the night Charles Derry— died," I said, 

The rather austere Professor of Marketing Management 
disappeared and Ross Windrow, sympathetic friend, ap- 
peared in his place with curiosity and concern showing 
on his face as he gazed across the table at me. "You were 
there? You actually saw what really happened?" 

I nodded. The papers had called Chuck's death "mur- 
der by person or persons unknown." It had caused a 
sensation when It happend. Lowena had been cleared com- 
pletly. There was absolutely no evidence to prove that 


she had been in any way involved with her husband's 
death. But I knew better. 

"Why didn't you tell the police what you saw at the 
time?" the Professor asked. 

I glanced across to where Lowena was sitting with her 
new young man. "I've already explained that. Because 
I was afraid. Besides, I'm certain that no one would have 
believed me. I've never spoken to anyone of what happened 
that night and I suspect I never will again. But if I can 
count on your treating what I have to say in confidence — " 

The professor looked chagrined. 

"I'm sorry," I said. 

"I'm waiting," he said. "It will do you good to get it 
oft' your chest — whatever it is." 

After he had summoned our waiter and ordered espresso, 
I began to tell him; starting at what was, for me and 
Charles Derry and Lowena Young Owl, the beginning of 
what would, within a year, prove to be Charles Derry's 
terrifying end. 

As I talked, I began to feel a sense of relief. It was 
a feeling akin to the catharsis so familiar to the ancient 
Greek dramatists, which was fitting since my tale — my 
experience — held within it the twin seeds of pity and 
tenor that were the bases of all truly tragic drama. 

Chuck Derry and I, I explained to Professor Windrow, 
had spent the previous summer bumming around the 
country in my old Buick. Our mission: to tape the folk 
songs and folk music of America's heartland. Chuck was 
a graduate student in music and I was a senior in the 
School of Business Administration, When Chuck sug- 
gested the jaunt, I jumped at the chance, knowing full 
well that would be my last free summer before I'd find 
myself stuck feet first into some monolithic corporation 
from which I'd probably never be able to extricate myself. 

By the time we reached New Orleans, I had become 
aware that Chuck had a problem. Ills problem was, in a 
word, alcohol. I hadn't seen much of Chuck during the 
school year — just a party here, a concert there — so I 
hadn't been aware of wliat was beginning to happen to him. 
More times during our summer together than I care to 
count, he had left me and gone oft' into the night from 
which he would emerge the next day red-eyed and weary as 
if he'd been battling unseen demons. Which, In a way, 
was true, I guess. 

He used to tell me about hearing music in his head. 
Wild music, he called it. Orgiastic music. He wanted to 
drown it out because, he told me, it was ruining his capac- 
ity to concentrate on his competing which had always 
produced incredibly sensitive and vaguely sensuous music. 
And then he'd laugh and tell me I really shouldn't pay 
any attention to him because surely I knew that all artists 
were more than a little bit mad. It was a prerequisite, 
he insisted, for any artist of more than average caliber. 

Chuck may not have been mad but he certainly was an 
oddly angry man that summer. I remembered one night 
in a bar in the French Quarter when he picked a fight 
with two merchant seamen for no reason that I could 
discover. 1 tried to get him out of the place before it was 
two late, only to discover that it was already too late. 
Chairs flew and bottles broke and, when it was over, Chuck 
and I fled, leaving behind two badly injured men who 
had been beaten senseless hy my friend, whom I had begun 
to think of as — well, driven. 

We headed west and I began to hint that our journey 
should be terminated. I was, frankly, becoming decidedly 
uneasy as Chuck continced his disappearing act night after 

might as well sb his arguments with waitresses In roadside 
diners and with gas station attendants — anyone unlucky 
enough to be present when the fury was loose within him. 

In August, we arrived at an Indian reservation, a pa- 
thetic vista of parched land and crumbling shacks, which 
Chuck jokingly referred to as modern America's version 
of Dante's Inferno. He wanted to stop to see if the In- 
dians could provide him with any material worth recording. 

"All I have to do Is spread a little wampum around," 
he joked, "and the singers will start gargling with Alka 
Seltzer and the musicians will eagerly oil their drum hides," 

So we scouted around the reservation, but we found 
only blank-eyed children, old people too tired to answer 
Chuck's questions and one or two dispirited young men 
who looked as if they had never heard of war paint. 

It was a hopeless task. A few of the people did sing us 
a few bawdy songs that they thought might have Indian 
origins but which were clearly the products of more 
modern bars and bordellos. It was sad — a bitter experi- 
ence. But Chuck was unwilling to give up. 

And then we saw Lowena. 

She was standing beside a water pump in the yard of 
a house that had a sagging roof on which a few scrawny 
chickens perched and clucked disconsolately. She wore a 
faded print dress and battered shoes. But her face was 
the face of a sun that no cloud could ever really dim. 
Even then, even in those dreary surroundings and those 
awful clothes, she looked regal and somehow above it all. 

Chuck nudged me and muttered something obscene and, 
before I could answer, began moving toward her. I meekly 
followed him as I had been doing all those weeks. 

"Good morning," I heard him say to Lowena, "My 
name Is Chuck Derry and I'm a composer. You know — a 
musician. I've been trying to find out if your people have 
any music that I could record. It's for a research project 
I'm working on at college." 

Lowena turned her lively black eyes on him and for a 
moment I saw something flicker across her face. I'd seen 
the same expression in other women's eyes because Chuck 
was a handsome guy. He was all well-placed beef on a 
graceful but sturdy frame. His hair was thick and long 
but not that Jopg and he could look absolutely cherubic 
if he chose. At that moment, he so chose. Lowena was 
visibly impressed. 

"The Indians have forgotten the old ways," she said in 
a voice that must have been a delight to a musician of 
Chuck's Benslbilities. "Their old gods are dead and their 
altars fallen to dust." 

Chuck glanced at me and raised his eyebrows meaning- 
fully. "You're not one— an Indian, I mean?" he inquired 
in his most polite manner. 

"I am an Indian. My name is Lowena Young Owl." 

"Listen," Chuck said, "are you sure there isn't anyone 
around here who remembers the old war chants or the 
burial songs or " 

"Have they invited you to the Church?" Lowena asked. 

"The Church? What Church?" 

"They have a vulgar name for it," she replied cryptic- 
ally. "In their new Church, they use peyote to open the 
door to — to otherness." 

Chuck was obviously fascinated as, much by Lowena's 
manner of speaking as by her very special kind of dark 
beauty. I Interrupted long enough to Introduce myself 
but Lowena wasn't really interested in me. It was Chuck 
who had captured her attention as I'd seen him do so many 
times before with so many other women. He was silently 

sending out his call of the wild and Lowena's antenna had 
picked it up. That much was perfectly clear to me. 

He asked her some more questions and at last she di- 
rected us to an old man we found sitting Inside the house 
behind us. At first, I assumed it was her grandfather 
hut I learned later that he was no relation of Lowena's. 
He was old and bent, his face a bronze filigree of deep 
wrinkles. His thin white hair was bound at the nape of his 
neck by a leather band and he wore the shirt and leggings 
that I'd seen in a hundred cowhoy pictures. 

"You come from the Bureau?" were his first suspicious 
words to us as we entered the house. 

Lowena spoke to him in a language neither Chuck nor 
I could understand and his eyes narrowed. 

"You want to go through The Door?" he inquired. 

Chuck looked at me and I started to shake my head when 
he said, "Yes. Yes, we do." He explained about his interest 
in possibly recording the ceremony and there was Nimw 
discussion between him and the old man about whether or 
not that would be considered quite proper. It promptly 
became proper when Chuck handed the old man twenty 

We spent the night in the man's shack since the next 
ceremony, he had told us, would not take place until the 
following evening. I slept little. Chuck slept less. I heard 
him get up and go outside and a little later I heard the 
rustle of some soft garment and I knew that Lowena had 
passed through the room and gone out after him. I heard 
their voices whispering for a time and then I heard nothing. 

The next night, the old man led us to the neighboring 
house where the ceremony was to be held. 

"Where's Lowena?" I whispered to Chuck. 

He shook his head. "She's tabu or something In the 
Church. The old man says she is bad medicine. He told 
me that the spirits of the Church are not her spirits. He 
talks a lot of silly gibberish. These people are still pretty 
much primitives." 


"I heard you researching one of those primitives last 

"Lowena's shy— at first," Chuck said, undismayed by 
my sly remark. "But beautiful. Oh, wow, is she ever I 
And she wants to leave the reservation," he concluded 

"Now wait a minute!" I protested, knowing Chuck. 

"We have room in the car. It might be fun. We can 
unload her later in Albuquerque or somewhere." 

"No," I argued. "Why, she doesn't look a day over 
seventeen. That kind of trouble, I don't need." 

We arrived then at the door of the house and Chuck 
went inside at once without further comment. I sighed 
and followed him. The old man showed us where to sit 
and we took our places among the silent group of people 
sitting about on the floor. Some time later, they passed 
the peyote buttons. Chuck chewed his but I dropped mine 
in my pocket. A little later, I went outside as the halluin- 
ations began to blossom in the minds of the worshippers, 
Chuck among them, and moans and mutterings filtered 
out into the night after me. 

I stood smoking outside the house for ten minutes or 
so before becoming aware that someone was standing 
nearby. I turned and confronted Lowena, a shadow within 
the darker shadows. I hadn't heard her approach nor had 
I seen any sign of her arrival. 
"Hi," I said. 

"Chuck likes me," she said. "You don't." 
"That's not true. I mean sure he likes you. Chuck likes 
lots of pretty girls. I've got nothing against you. Oh, 

hell, I mean " 

She looked up at the full moon which flooded her iovely 
face with light. "I must leave the reservation," she said. 

She looked at me with a curious expression on her face. 
•They have not told you what I am called?" 

"The dark door." 
"I'm afraid I don't understand." 

"In there," she said, tossing her head to indicate the 
Cmrch behind us. "In there, they seek to let the old ones 
Uirough the door so that they might listen to their counsel. 
Tkey hope that one day the old ones in their wisdom will 
letd them into a new land and a better life. But they are 
wrong. The old ones no longer listen to us because we 
ha*e betrayed them. They have turned their faces from 
us and they will no longer hear our laments. I was their 
pritstess once. But the people refused to listen to the 
ones who came when I called. They said that the ones 
who came were not the old ones but the evil ones It does 
not matter to me now. It is, after all, only a matter of 
chen.istry, isn't it? Chemistry Is their new religion now 
but b laboratory Is its proper shrine. Still — what happens, 

"True," I said, understanding next to nothing of what 
she siid. 
"Oh, Carl, I have to leave here !" 

I saw that she was crying. She was not making a sound, 
but she was crying nevertheless. Her tears made moon- 
white rivers on her cheeks. I could think of nothing to 
say. The sight of a woman's tears is something I have 
never been able to bear. It was then, I think, that the 
bargain among the three of us was sealed although I did 
not know it at the time. 

"They will have to kill me one day because they want to 


lock forever my dark door. They fear it. And when peo- 
ple fear something, they destroy it." 

"But your family can—" 

She shook her head. "I have no family. My mother was 
tuken from the reservation years ago when I was just a 
child. She was a seeress and she taught me much about 
making strong medicine. But the BIAi — " 

"The BIA?" 

"The Bureau of Indian Affairs. They said she was sick — 
schizophrenic. She died in a strait jacket on the way to 
the hospitaL No one knew why. I think she simply chose 
to die and did. My father went away after that. He just 
walked off the reservation one day and never came back. 
I have no one. I need someone," 

The someone she needed, it developed, was Chuck Derry. 
The next day, the three of us left the reservation. Lowena 
sat in the front seat of the car next to Chuck. Before we 
left, lie told me he thought he was in love with her. He 
wanted to know If I had ever seen a more beautiful girl. 
I told him 1 had not. 

Once we arrived back at college, Chuck and I went our 
separate ways. I didn't see him again until two months 
later when he phoned to invite me to the impromptu party 
he and Lowena were giving following their civil marriage 

"You married her?" I exclaimed over the phone, sur- 
prised and yet not totally. 

'•You make ft sound like a crime," he declared, laughing. 
"Come on over and help us celebrate." 

I went to the apartment which Chuck had rented off- 
campus and tried to share in the general gaiety but found 
it impossible to do so. I. felt like I had lost Lowena al- 
though my common sense told me I had never possessed 
her. I admitted to myself at last that I had wanted her 
but had not had the courage or the nerve to do anything 
about the wanting. I cursed myself for a meek fool who 
would never inherit either Lowena or the earth. But 
there was another reason for my distress — Chuck. To be 
precise, it was Chuck's behavior toward Lowena. He 
treated her as a prize he might have won at some carnival, 
I soon noticed. He displayed her. She was his ornament. 
His Golden Fleece, his Grail. 

As the evening wore on and became somewhat rowdy, I 
sensed Lowena's anguish. She seemed to wilt, to shrink 
wiLhin herself. When Chuck seized her arm to drag her 
across the room to meet some late arrival, I could feel 
her embarressment. I thought of hunters who displayed 
their trophies on their walls for admiring eyes — stuffed 
proofs of their virility. Chuck was using Lowena In that 
way. And I knew that she knew it. There remained little 
trace of the tenderness he had shown toward her during our 
long trip back across the country the summer before. Now 
he treated Lowena as a mere instrument on which he would 
compose a score to suit only himself. 

I decided to leave early but, before I had reached the 
door, Lowena saw me slipping into my coat and came 
over to me. 

<; Carl," she said, "ft was good of you to come." 

"I hope you'll both be very happy, Lowena," I said, 
meaning it sincerely, 

"Happy," Her repetition of the word was flat and tone- 
less. "Chuck seems happy, doesn't he?" 

I looked across the room to where Chuck reeled, one 
arm slung over the shoulder of an obliging blonde In a 

"Will you come to see us often?" Lowena asked and I 

heard, not a simple question, but a faintly desperate plea, 
"Of course," I replied and leaned over to kiss her cheek. 
But I didn't go to see them again. Call it jealousy or 
whatever you will. I didn't go because I couldn't, I saw 
Lowena on campus occasionally waiting for Chuck or just 
strolling in the leafy quiet which she said soothed her. I 
wondered why she needed soothing. 

It was at a New Year's Eve party given by mutual 
friends that I began to realize how badly wrong things 
were going for Lowena. As I came up to her, she called 
my name and threw her arms around me. Her clasp was 
tight and, I thought, tense. When she looked up at me, 
I couldn't disguise my sense of shock. 

She gave me a wry smile and touched her bruised left 
eye. "I bumped into an open kitchen cabinet the other 
night. Clumsy of me. 

I pretended to accept her explanation but before the 
night ended, I knew the name of the "cabinet" she had 
bumped into. Chuck Derry, I knew because of what 
happened as the clock struck midnight. A man seized 
Lowena and gave her a friendly kiss. As he released her, 
Chuck suddenly appeared beside them. 

"Stutl" he shouted, and the word stopped the world 
for a moment as it hung heavy in the suddenly still air 
of the room. He seized her and spun her around and 
raised his hand and brought it down in a swift motion 
against her face. The sound of his slap revebcrated In 
the air. 

For a moment, Lowena stood frozen in front of him 
while the man who had kissed her tried to explain to 
Chuck who refused to listen to him. I was about to look 
away In shame when I saw the fury flash in Lowena's 
eyes. It was gone in nn instant. She ran into the bedroom 
and slammed the door behind her. Slowly, like an aging 
elephant, the party tried to struggle back to life and failed 

The next time I saw Lowena was at her own apartment. 
She called me one day in April and invited me to dinner. 
I tried to make excuses but she would not listen to them. 
I at last consented to come. 

When I arrived, Chuck was not at home. Lowena met 
me at the door and took rae by the hand to lead me Into 
the apartment. 

"You'll have a martini," she said, remembering. "On the 
rocks and with a twist." 

"Thank you," I said as she handed me the drink a 
moment later. "How are you, Lowena?" 

"Pregnant," she answered to my surprise. 

I studied her face and found no joy in it. Her face was 
a mask of determination, I noticed the bruise on her arm. 
"Congratulations. Chuck must be pleased," 

"No, he isn't. He says it's too soon. He blames me. 
Carl, something is happening to Chuck. Something very 

"I know. I saw it begin last summer. But I suppose the 
real beginning was long ago. He — he hurts you, doesn't he?" 

She nodded. "But there is much worse than that. He 
has made me hate him because he insists that I must 
destroy the child, " 

Chuck arrived then and our conversation took an aburpt 
turn into safer channels. The dinner Lowena had pre- 
pared was excellent but Chuck could not have appreciated 
It, considering the way he drank before, throughout and 
after the meal. By the time Lowena served the coffee — 
Chuck refused it and poured himself another whiskey — he 
was like an animal. 

"I'm not even sure it's my kid !" he exploded at one point. 
"Chuck 1" Lowena cried out in shock. You know I 

"Shut up!" he muttered into his glass. 

"Chuck," I said nervously. "Come on, man!" 

"That slut is capable of anything," he muttered. "I 
should have left her back there on that dung heap of a 
reservation. She could spend her time weaving baskets 
for the tourists instead of manufacturing kids we don't 
need and can't afford." 

Lowena stiffened and got up to leave the room. 

Chuck leaped to his feet and grabbed her arm, twisting 
it behind her. "You're staying!" he bellowed. 

She cried out, more of a gasp than a scream. 

"Let her go!" I yelled, jumping to my feet. As I did, 
my wallet fell to the floor, I had been showing them pic- 
tures of a girl I had met and with whom I was rapidly 
tailing in love. 

Chuck angrily shoved Lowena away from him with an 
expression of utter disgust and she fell heavily to the 

I went to her and helped her to her feet. Chuck swung 
me around and his fist smashed into my face. I reeled 
backward, tasting blood from a loosened tooth. Before I 
could recover my balance,, Lowena was beside me and 
leading me to the door. 

"I'm so sorry, Carl," she moaned. "You'd better go. 
When he's like this, lie's dangerous." 

"I can't leave you here alone with him. I " 

"Go," she said firmly. "I can handle him." 

I found myself out in the hali. Lowena kissed my cheek 
and told me not to worry. She would be in touch soon, she 
said. She was sorry about the way things had turned out. 
But I was not to worry about her. 

I made my way down the steps and out of the building 
and began to walk toward the bus stop. I must have taken 
a wrong turn because I found myself in an unfamiliar 
area some time later. I retraced my steps and eventually 
found the bus stop. Only then did I rememher that I had 
left my wallet in the apartment. I could have gotten it 
from Lowena in the morning but I decided to go back 
for It. It would give me a legitimate excuse to return 
and see if she was all right. 

When I reached the building, I climhed the stairs as I 
had done earlier and soon found myself in front of their 
apartment. I rang the bell and waited. When no one 
answered, I rang again. Finally, I tried the door. It was 
unlocked. I went in and found the room in darkness. I 
couldn't remember where the light switch was and spent 
Mime time fumbling about in the darkness trying to locate 
it, calling Lowena's name softly as I did so, I didn't want 
to frighten her. 

She didn't answer. 

I groped my way through the room which was only 
vaguely lighted by the street light outside. I finally found 
my wallet on the floor where it had fallen and was down on 
my hands and knees feeling about for the pictures I had 
taken from it when I heard the first of the awful sounds. 

A faint, faraway chlttering as of rats in an abandoned 

"Lowena?" I whispered in the darkness. "Chuck, is that 

And then I saw them both as Lowena appeared beside 
the window and drew the sheer curtains to admit more 
light. "Lowena," I whispered, "don't be frightened. "It's 
me. Carl." 


Her eyes were closed and she seemed not to have heard 

me. 1 glanced at Chuck who lay sprawled In a drunken 
slupor on the sofa. Lowena was raising her arms toward 
the ceiling and tilting her head back so that her sightless 
eyes were also raised to it. Sounds came from between 
her slightly parted lips — words I couldn't recognize. I 
moved toward her cautiously, feeling the chill that was 
either in the room or in my own mind. 

Before I reached her, she began to fade. Her body 
seemed to undulate and then, glowing, it became trans- 
lucent. I stopped and stared in alarm, unable to believe 
what I was seeing. A trick of the iight, I told myself. 

The cluttering grew louder. It was coming from 
Lowena's direction. 1 took a step toward her and stopped 
as 1 realized I could sec through her body! But what I 
saw was not the wall behind her. It was — tomeivherel 
Mists swirled there. Blue mists and mauve. Hideous, half- 
seen figures I could not identify loped through those mists, 
moving toward me from the place beyond Lowena! 

The cluttering was, I realized, the voices of the creatures 
moving in the mist. 

And then, suddenly, the first of them entered the room 
through the translucence that was Lowena. With them 
came a ghastly odor, a charred odor, that was both dis- 
gusting and overpowering. I gagged. 

Some of them were furred, Some, feathered. None of 
them stood more than a foot high. They glided into the 
room on .slick bellies or fluttered with soft fat sounds on 
leathery wings. They illexed dripping talons and bared 
yellow teeth and mewled and cried out in thin chltlnous 
shrieks as they moved across the floor to where Chuck 
lay snoring. 

I backed away in horror. The things saw me then and 
began scurrying to cut off my escape I They took up 
positions between me and the door leading from the apart- 
ment, groping toward me with grotesquely twisted limbs. 

A word shot suddenly from between Lowena's lips, a 
word I had never heard before and hope never to hear 
again. The things halted at her command. 

She spoke again In guttural, consonantal words, re- 
directing the creatures toward her intended victim. 

Chuck screamed once as the creatures crawled over him. 
A furred one fluttered about his mouth and his cries 
became gurgles and then low groans as he thrashed about 
in his struggle with the things Lowena had summoned 
through the dark door of herself. They pierced his body. 
They clawed and bit and chewed in an orgy of destruction. 

It lasted only seconds. 

Afterwards, Chuck lay still, lifeless. 

Lowena called out to the creatures from her trance 
state and they obeyed her commands. I watched as they 
trooped back through the translucent door that she had 
become and moved swiftly off into the swirling mists that 
embraced them as if in welcome and disappeared from 

Lowena's body no longer glowed with that ghastly trans- 
lueence. It firmed, resuming the familiar shape I knew 
so well. Her bead lowered, her lips closed, and she fell 
to the floor and lay there unconscious. 

I ran from the room and down the stairs and out of the 
building. I can't clearly remember how I got home that 
night. I do recall that I didn't sleep. I was afraid that 
I might dream. 

Professor Windrow let out a breath he had evidently 
been holding for some time. "What were those things you 
saw?" he asked me. 

"I don't know," I answered. "But I do know that the 
people on the reservation were right in calling Lowena 
the dark door through which unspeakable things can come 
if she calls them. That night she called them. Tkny were 
the 'person or persons unknown' who killed Chuck Derry." 

Professor Windrow glanced covertly across the dining 
room at Lowena who was holding the hand of her young 
man and smiling happily at him. "I can readily understand 
now why you said you were afraid of her," he commented 
thoughtfully. "But I must say that her escort seems quite 
contented with his lot." 

"I hope he will be kind to her and to the little girl she 
bore last month," I said softly. "I can't bear to think 
of what might happen to him if he should treat her cruelly — 
as Chuck did. She Is not the defenseless woman she seems 
to be." 


by Robert E. Howard 

The little poets sing of little things: 

Hope, cheer, and faith, small queens and puppet kings; 

Lovers who kissed and then were made as one, 

And modest flowers waving in the sun. 

The mighty poels write in hlood and tears 

And agony that, flame-like, bites and sears. 

They reach their mad blind hands into the night, 

To plumb abysses dead to human sight; 

To drag from gulfs where lunacy lies curled, 

Mad monstrous nightmare shapes to blast the world. 


The Way She Lived Her Role Was Driving Me Mad . But If Her Role Died .... 

by Pauline C. Smith 


I THOUGHT it was cute at first, the way she lived her part, feeding 
me back my lines ... like we'd be in some candlelit bistro and she'd 
hunch those milk-white shoulders, widen her gray-green eyes so the false 
lashes not only sent shadows up into her flaxen hair but laid smudges 
along her hollow cheekbones and say, in that husky voice she'd developed, 
"What we are doing is wrong, Don." 

My name isn't Don, it's Floyd, and what we were doing wai sitting 
over beef stroganoff. So what's wrong with that? 

"My sister is here. In this room with us." 

Janet never had a sister. 

"She will keep us from marrying, Don. She is evil. Evil." 

All of which was my own corny dialogue from the twenty-first episode 
of the serialized soap opera called THE HOUSE OF EVIL, a gothic. 
Gothics are big this season, in case you didn't know, and the most 
sucessful of them are laid in an old creaky mansion filled with sin- 

later Influence and some cute little sexpot being chased 
by ghosts and guilt complexes} like THE HOUSE OF 
EVIL, In which Janet is the sexpot, Lorna, and I'm listed 
on the crawl as head writer. 

You dig? 

For six million daytime television viewers Janet, as 
Lorna, breathes deeply) weeps glycerine tears while shud- 
dering and sighing amid ominous piano chords and oboe 

That's the way the script reads. 

When I, an impoverished freelancer, was assigned THE 
HOUSE OF EVIL, I grasped the weekly salary with 
hungry hands. Here was success at last — not the fame and 
fortune I had hoped for with my first lousy novel, but 
security, and as long as I could keep Lorna chased, chaste 
and suffering yet Indomitable so that six million out there 
in television-land hung on, weeping and clutching their 
Kleenexes, I had it made. 

Janet, like I say, was a sexy little broad and the first 
time I was on the set and heard my words coming through 
that pound and a half microphone tucked smugly inside 
her padded bra, she was the bubble of soap I wanted most 
in my security bath. 

I didn't get to Scene One until another thirty-six 1 se- 
quences of slow dialogue, pregnant pauses, long closeups 
filled with horrified shrieks finally wound up with Lorna 
In Don's arms and, simultaneously, Janet in Floyd's (being 
me, the writer). 

"I am so afraid of the curse of my dead sister," breathed 

"Darling," I breathed back, "together we will find the 
answer to the secret and lay the spell of the curse," and 
not until then did I realise that we were, by God, repeating 
dialogue of the day's sequence. 

Now you can't hurry soap, so we sloshed through forty- 
two more terrifying and sodden sequences before Janet 
became mine In Lorna's wedding gown— wispy, witchy and 
virginal, and we moved into our apartment. By damn, if 
Janet hadn't found an apartmentized Victorian mansion 
that should have been condemned and hauled away years 

"Goddammit, Janet," I yelled, "this Is a relic." 

And she said, "Don't you swear at me," probably be- 
cause Don can't use an expletive more powerful than for 
Pttt't taki in front of those six million sitting on the 
edge of their kitchen stools. 

No kidding, our married life was a script— if it could 
be played to an audience, It was played. If it couldn't, 
forget It. Ours was a Mark it and Strike U apartment — 
act it out between the chalk lines, with one take only. 

It got so I was not only writing THE HOUSE OF 
EVIL, but living it too, and, believe me, one gothic soap 
sequence per day is ENOUGH. With our apartment a 
studio set, starred by an onstage wife who used continuity 
emotions and colled me by a script name, I wanted out. 

"Janet," I yelled, "come alive," so she brought out her 
work basket of expressions and knitted me a brow. I was 
ready to climb the walls. 

We'd go to the neighborhood supermarket for a loaf of 
bread and a bottle of wine and get mobbed the minute a 
bunch of horoemakers, who ought to be doing dishes instead 
of hanging on television every morning, caught sight of 

"There's Lorna I" they squealed like a bunch of teen- 
agers — and, presto! there was Lorna all right, signing 

autographs, and would you believe It, handing out advice 
on ghosts in the attic, 
It was fantastic! 

There was a girl on the afternoon shift at the drug store 
who brooded over the story line, and hissed regularly at 
Janet, "I think the reason for the curse is that you killed 
your sister. And I think you killed her so she wouldn't 
get Don. I feel sorry for him — you always act so nice and 
demure except when you're screaming, I know what you 
are, and shame on you 1 ." 

She gave me a whole new sub-plot at a time that I 
needed a sub-plot. 

Actually, it was hard to blame Janet for typecasting 
herself with every soap opera- watching housewife and 
gothlc-loving drug clerk egging her on with the Lorna 
bit; but, dammit, I got so I felt like I was paper-clipped 
to a page of working script. 

Every night, while I clacked out a new installment on 
the typewriter, Janet studied her lines for the next day's 
shooting. Being a method actress, she started with a yoga 
position of hard-breathing contemplation — breathe in — the 
breasts swelled while she sucked her stomach to a hollow- 
breathe out — breasts, stomach all back In place. It was 
quite a sight to watch, after which she unscrambled herself 
and became Lorna, speaking her complicated dialogue . . . 
"The house Is against me, Don," with the knitted brow. 
"Listen 1" and the indrawn breath, "I hear ghostly foot- 
steps," clenching and unclenching her jaw muscles to con- 
vey frightened anxiety, thus using all three in her arsenal 
of acting devices. 

It was a gas, like In carbon monoxide, and I was fed 
up before the hundred and sixty-eighth episode. By then, 
she was so much Lorna, the yoga stance only pushed her 
from Lorna to more Lorna, and I began to wonder if there 
was a Janet in there somewhere all curled up and sleeping; 
unless maybe she'd never been Janet or anyone else, but 
only an empty body searching around for a personality, 
to become complete once she found Lorna. 

Weird, huh? 

I wished, since I was married to this carbon copy kook, 
that I was writing a swinger script with swishy back-talk 
along with some loving — but, let's face it, If I could write 
snappy dialogue and smooth-sex, I could get locked in with 
a good slot, throw away my psychological and parapsy- 
chologlcal library, and make with the thesaurus like the 
big boys. 

Then Janet, in her Lorna-voice, found the ghost. 

Honest I 

"I hear footsteps," she said, her tone sepulchral, 

"You hear the click of my typewriter," I answered her 

"No," she said. "There Is a spirit moving." 

There was a spirit moving met 

I lifted my fingers from the typewriter keys. "Hey, 
Janet," I called to her. 


"Hey, Lorna," I tried. 

"Yes, Don." 

"I'm Floyd," I said. "How about a divorce?" 

She appeared to consider. Then she said, "Do you hear 
it?" She was listening with far more expression than she 
had ever used on the set. "Footsteps. Listen, Don. Listen 
to the footsteps. They are from the other world." 

I listened. Then I used a four-letter word she never 
even heard because she was listening to the footsteps. 

Good Godl 


I sat staring at her, my hands limp over my typewriter 
keys. She left the footsteps and entered yoga again, and 
the deep breathing exercises. I watched her with the awful 
knowledge that I was stuck to this female fugue, faced 
with the redundancy of writing words for her to say back 
to me over and over again ... a future of reruns— writing 
and listening, writing and listening again— unless . . . and 
I flexed my fingers, ready to type— unless I could write 
her off my back. 

My typewriter clicked like castanets and the next day 
I took my notes to the story conference. 

"I got a great idea," I said airily at all those beady eyes 
glowing with expectancy. "I got an Idea that'll boost us 
upstairs into an afternoon slot." 

"Give, Floyd baby, give," offered the network poobah. 

"Well, it's this way ..." 1 sweat a little under my 
turtleneck, "Instead of Lorna's sister, the ghost, bugging 
Lorna with her ominous footfalls and vengeful catcalls, 
she becomes friendly . . ." 

'•Who becomes friendly, Floyd baby?" asked the poobah 
in a carefully surpressed voice. 

"The ghost. The ghost becomes friendly." I had a 
moment of drowning in my own sea of words. My life 
and all its flashbacks hung In balance. "The ghost becomes 

"She becomes a friendly ghost, the do-good type, more a 
blithe spirit kind of ghost, helpful, happy, lovingi thus 
turning Lorna into a happy, loving sexpot . . ." 

"Floyd baby," broke in the poobah, flicking cigar ashes 
all over my script outline, "this is a gothtc by name of 
THE HOUSE OF EVIL. You trying to change it Into a 
situation comedy?" 

Yes I That's exactly what I was trying to do. I was 
trying to change the image of that carbon copy chick I 
was superimposed behind. 

"Floyd baby," said the poobah sternly, "No! He rose 
from his chair to add emphasis to the word. 

"Just a minute. I've got another angle," I cried with 
fervor, and slowly and reluctantly the poobah folded again 
to the edge of his chair, while I gave some rapid-fire 
thinking as to how I could come forth with a split screen 
effect. I knuckle-drummed the table thoughtfully and that 
gave me an idea . . . "The sounds of Evil House become 
more threatening," I said with an ominous growl In my 
throat and some additional beats with the heel of my hand. 

"Let's get on with it, Floyd baby," suggested the poobah 

"There is, at last, a physical confrontation between the 
sister-ghost and Lorna, and the secret, the terrible secret 
Is disclosed at last." I looked around at all the beady, 
lidded eyes and swallowed. "Lorna did kill her titter." 1 
paused for the effect of my words. They had produced no 

"Yes," I said, hopeful that repetition might cause im- 
pact, "Lorna knows now, for a fact, that she did kill her 
sister — accidentally, of course — but she rememberB it all . . ." 

"So what happens to Lorna?" asked the poobah gently. 

"Naturally, she's out of the script," I said, gaining con- 
fidence. "And the ghost begins to haunt . . ." 

The poobah did not allow me to finish my plans whereby 
I would break up the Janet-Lorna syndrome and gain 
Janet-whoever-she-was as my own. "Floyd baby." The 
poobah rose and flicked his ashes again. "Floyd baby, I'll 
give it to you straight. You've got a strong lead-in and 
your tease Is great. But formatwise it stinks. We can't 
Just toss out our long-suffering, indomitable sex-wlthout- 

sex symbol into Umbo. The housewives would wipe us" 
out of video-land with one concerted swipe of their dish 
towels , . ." 
I caved within my turtle-neck, 

"Floyd baby, your contract comes up next month. I 
suggest you keep the ghost ominous and the secret a secret. 
I suggest you continue Lorna's deep breathing and her 
shrieks . . ." He rolled the cigar around in his fingers and 
patted me on the shoulder with a Great White Father pat. 
"The ghost ghosts, Lorna stays In. Floyd baby, that's 
the way the script scrambles — if you want your contract 

Back to the typewriter. 

Each evening, I watched Janet make like Lorna and 
not within my plot within plot. 

Every evening Lorna , , , see, it's getting to me, I mean 
Janet . . . went through her yoga routine with the breathing 
and contemplation. "The ghost walks 1" she said, studying 
her lines aloud, "Don, the ghost is walking again," as she 
pointed, so help me, at the old marble fireplace in the old 
run-down apartment In that old Victorian mansion, making 
a montage of the unreality of the studio set Into the reality 
of our nutsy life. 

I tore my hair, knowing that if I didn't do something 
to separate me from this funny female I'd be as far-out 
as she. 

Write her off, I told myself, and bent my brains to 
figure out how to do that with the poobah breathing over 
my shoulder, scattering cigar ashes over my contract. 

She pointed her taloned finger dramatically at the fire- 
place as she hollowly announced, "Footfalls. Listen to the 
ghostly footfalls, Don. Listen. Just listen." 

Me? I listened like an idiot and heard nothing except 
the words I had already typed. 

Janet was Jiving the part all right. It was inside her, 
shaking her to bits, hollowing her face, painting shadows 
beneath her eyes and my facile writer-mind angled into 
straight psychology. Letters and cards rolled in, sym- 
pathizing with "possessed Lorna.." The dames in the 
supermarket toned down their shrieks and walked on tip- 
toe. The nut in the drug store mellowed and said, "If 
you killed your Bister, I'm sure she deserved it and you 
are sorry. You are paying, poor Lorna, you are paying 
a big price." 

It was crazy, man, like where's-the-nea rest- funny-farm. 

The drug store nut did it . . . well, so did the "Pos- 
sessed" cards and letters, for surely Janet was possessed 
and surely she would pay a price, not In the script that 
would cancel my contract but in her own padded gray cells. 

So I started to work on It. Not on the script, but on 
Lorna and I do mean Lorna. 

I tapped out the daily script with its dally dialogue, 
then I listened to her rehearsal as she sat cross-legged, 
and watched her three expressions as she feebly emoted. 

While I tapped and listened and watched, I fed Lorna 
subliminal messages. "You killed her," I said softly. "You 
killed her," between taps as I watched and listened. 

"The footfalls," she said out-of-script, as she looked to- 
ward the fireplace. "The footfalls approach." 

"You killed her," I added subllmlnally. "You remem- 
ber, Lorna. You remember the killing, the murder, Lorna." 

She shuddered In her yoga position. 

"You remember, Lorna.. You remember it now." 

She rose and turned toward the fireplace. I remember," 
she said. 

Now I was working on one script and feeding another. 



Triumph wu near. It was difficult to keep the script and 
the messages from overlapping in my mind while they 
overlapped In Lorna's. 

"The shock," I said softly, "will kill you, Lorna." 

Her eyes glazed to gray-green glass. 

"You will die, Lorna, with the full knowledge of murder. 
Your heart will stop. You will die, Lorna, tomorrow." 

She drooped and I hoped. 

The following day I was on the set. It was the game 
old sound direction! OMINOUS FOOTFALLS. SOUND 
old dialogue: "Don, she is here again. In the house. I can 
feel her presence. Oh, Don." 

I watched from my seat on the closed set as Lorna cast 
herself into Don's arms. 

The sound track came through with some more footsteps. 

Don said gently, "I don't feel her, Lorna dear." 

Lorna stiffened, and she did It well. "I remember. Oh, 
I remember . , ." 

It was here that the script continued to the next page, 
with Lorna'* typed words, "I remember when we were 
children in this big old house . . ." The script was on file, 
but I had not given Janet the following pages. I had given 
her only to the page with the "I remember. Oh, I remem- 
ber," dialogue. The rest had been subliminal— my words: 
"You remember that you killed her, Lorna. You remember 
your guilt. Vou are overwhelmed by it. For you remember 
at last. Lorna, the shock of your knowledge kills you. 
You fall. Your heart stops. You are dead." 

The director decided to play Instant God. "Cut and 
go hack," he yelled. 

I leaned forward in my seat, hoping he wouldn't break 
the thread of suggestion. 

"Back to 'I can feel her presence,' " yelled the director. 

"She is here again," Lorna said onstage. "I can feel her 
presence. Oh, Don." 

Don then did his adequate job with, "Lorna dear, I 
don't feel her . . ." 

Lorna stiffened (according to directions) and I tensed. 

"I remember," she cried. Oh, I remember . . ." 

She fell as I rose. 

The camera and sound men went on grinding for a full 
thirty seconds before pandemonium set in. 

"Why, she's dead," said the poobah, sprinkling ashes 
upon Janet. 

Yes, she was dead. Janet was dead. 

And so was Lorna. 

"Floyd baby, the poobah whirled on me. "Write it Into 
the script. Write It out of the script. Do something!" 

I am here now, in this Victorian broken-down apartment 
trying to do something with the script. I don't really know 
what to do because of those footfalls over there by the 
marble fireplace. 

The footfalls. 

Hear them? 

They seem to be approaching. 

Introducing the macabre art 
of Robert £. Jennings 


Fisher Could 

Find Out 

What Logan 

Wanted to Know. 

All He Had to Do 

Was Die 

by Carleton Grindle 


There were three of them: Logan and two hirelings. They went up five 
flights of stairs so narrow they seemed meant for goats not men. At the top 
they found a door only slightly less dingy than the walls. Logan tried the 
door, found it locked and motioned for Heffernan who had a trick for open- 
ing locked doors. Heffernan did his trick. The door swung slowly open. 

The room beyond was dimly lit as if frozen in perpetual dusk. What light 
poured in through the open door touched a face. It was only a charcoal sketch 
on an easel but Logan stopped in the doorway and stared for a moment as if 
he could not believe his eyes. 

There was nothing possible about that sketched face: not the way the flesh 
hung at the jowls as if from some inhuman bone structure, not the cold bitter 
light that was suggested in otherwise vacant eyes. Yet those features and oth- 
ers mom grotesque were gathered in a way that suggested not only that they 


' belonged together but thul the artist drew the subject from life. 

Or perhaps afterlife. 

There was someone standing in the deeper shadows of the room. A low, 
nwllow voice asked, "What do you want?" 

The hireling, Heffernan, found the light and switched it on. 

The room's occupant was tall and gaunt. He blinked pale, watery eyes 
against the sudden light and his hair was a neutral color. He might well have 
blended right into the SfitBHtry raeejtl that he was too bland for this tenement 
setting. His eyes adjusted to the light and he looked at the intruders without 
fear. That was as Logan exper.ted it would lit but the movement of Heffernan 's 
feet told him Heffernan did not understand the gaunt man's laek of fear. That 
too, was at l,ogan exper.ted. He said, "Your name's Fisher." 

"My name is Ward. James Ward." 

"No good. You're fisher, all right. James Fisher/' 

"My name's Ward. I never heard of James Fisher." 

"Ever heard of the Momentary Ghost?" 

The gaunt man's attitude changed. He gave a tjgh as if there was some re- 
lief at being found, but not much. The pale watery eyes seemed to acknowl- 
edge his identity if his tips did not. Logan smiled in triumph. 

"Now you see? All that running and hiding and here you've been found 
out again. Hut don't worry, I need help from you and after that we'll let you 
go your own way and never bother you again." 

"Who are you?" 

"My name's Ijtgan-you never heard of me." 

"Look, Mr. logan, I can't help you. I'm nut this Fisher you're looking for. 
Whatever you want with him I can't help you." 

"Now sure you can. I know you're Fisher. I've seen pictures of you. You're 

• older, thinner, lest some weight. Hut I know who you are. I can 6ee who you 

are. So no game*, all right? Level with me and III level with you. Agreed?" 

Fisher looked around. The other two men stood in relaxed postures near 
the door, exhibiting their talent for unoblrusion. After a moment Fisher 
thought it through and nodded his head. "I'm Fisher," he admitted. "But I 
can't help you." 

"You don't even know what I need." 

"I know what you want. You want me to go over, but I can't do that. 1 

"You say you lost the power?" 

"1 can't go over, that's all. Haven't in years." 

Logan shook his head. He turned and looked again at the drawing on the 
easel. "You saw this over there didn't you?" 

"A long time ago. I don't go back there anymore." 

"Don't," said Logan. "You say 'don't' not 'can't.' " 

Logan studied the drawing a minute, hit, sS.-sUsi.lf: «videnl in his face. "If 
this is what they're like over there I don'! !sl;!i»e yt'i. not wanting to go back. 
But I need you. I need the help of the Momentary Ghost and III pay for the 

"1 don't need money." 

"Anyone stuck in a dump like this steeds tnoHcy. I.Et me tell you about 
r-:..y proiiierei ! £-ti ihU friend, this lMi»i:!e;!b partiier. * sy>« you'd sey hi: sent 
over. Well he had siwssef hirifs in hk care sun! s;o» I cars \ find it. I want you to 
go and talk to him. Just chat and so on. I'm sure hell be glad to tell you 
where it is and you can tell me. fill he that pleasant and when it's over with, 
you just come on back and give me the info and III pay you a good heavy fee 
and you can go anywhere you like and drop out of sight with enough bread 
to buy your privacy. It's that simple." 

"I haven't been over in years. 1 can't do it anymore." 

Logan came to him and gave him a smile: deep and reassuring. "Sure you 
can. Think of the money. You can gel out of this goddamned slum and go 
someplace like Braid and hid*, in rhs syn Think of that. No more shadowy 
rooms with more cobwebs than furniture. Ill give you enough money to gel 
to Braiil and set yourself up where nobody can find you. . . 

"It's been so long. I've lost the power. But even if 1 still had it-. Logan, 
you don't know what it's like. 1 can't take it." 

"Maybe not Brazil then. Maybe Majorca or Tahiti. Where is up to you!" 


Heffernan stepped forward. He was a big man, well groomed and muscu- 
lar: the look of an athlete with a touch of show business in him. A wrestler, 
perhaps. "You do as Mr. Logan says," he said levelly. 

"I want you to come with me to my plae.e and we can work out arrange- 
ments, okay?" Logan said. "I pay well. My fri«nds hews, Mr, Heffernan and 
Mr. Lovelace will testify to my generosity, wwA you gentlemen?" 

Both men nodded. 

"See? You'd be doing yourself a favor to eo-operate." 

"No," Fisher said. "No." 

He tried to 
ach anrl was followed by another 

He moved so swiftly he was almost to the door before Heffernan compre 
hended his action. But before he could open the door something slammed in 
to his hack. Air rushed from hit, lump and he fell stunned to the floor. H 
rolled over and tried to reach the door, to throw it open. He saw Heffernan' 
smooth shaved ruddy face bending over him, saw the fit 
roll aside but the fist slammed inl 
sledge hammer blow to his jaw. 

"Don't hurt him," l«gan cried out. 

The blows stopped but Fisher's senses swam in semi -consciousness. He w 
barely aware of the two mil 

from his room, down the stairs and out into the late afternoon BanUght. in 
waiting ear. 

He swam in a world of blackness seasoned with ]>ain and it was Spring. 

"Gently, boys, gently, . . ," eame Logan'.-, luicv through the darkness. 

"He can take it." 

"We don't want him damaged." 

"But he won't co-operate." 

"There's other ways to make a man talk. Belter ways. Leave him alone 
now with his pain. He'll be more agreeable tomorrow." 

They left. Spring became Summer and Summer became Fall followed by 
Winter: the full cycle in a world of agony, flul though pain eased off Winter 
WSS stilt ec4d and bitl« with his thoughts. 

The thoughts of the Momentary Ghost. 

And of someone waiting for him where he feared to go. 

He saw her face swimming up out of the darkness toward him. Soft and 
lovely. Clear pale skin. Lovely green eyes. Full espressivc lips. Golden red hair 
that he never compared to a sunset because it was loo wonderful of itself, too 
unlike anything except itself. How long it seemed since she had gone, not mo- 
mentarilv as he had often gone, but permanently. 


And the agony of that thought was greater than the pain of his beating 

But after a time, he slept. And a time after that, he awoke. 

It was morning. He could tell by the light streaming in from the narrow 
window high in the wall, light that had a certain clarity characteristic of the 
morning He sal up on the edge of the bed and let hiss senses swim dizzily. 

The beating was profession', ar.d proficient. Hs- iva* sore but when he 
cheeked himself he found few bruises. Nothing seemed broken. He was weik 
and hungry and realised that much more of this and he might go over and not 
come back. He searched his thoughts frantically for some way out hut thought 

He looked round the room he was in and thought of the word cell. The 
ceiling was high and a single small window near the ceiling, too small to 
crawl through even if it could be reached, provided what light there was. The 
walls were bare and white as bus iiu- (He fW, Tin- nrtly furniture was the cot 
on which he sat. There was nothing to ir-dime the room's original puqiose 
and Fisher could imagine Logan had it built with the purpose of holding un- 
sillisig giicsli. ii> snirid. Lo^fi seamed -inpibrlt prepared io? the t.nti-dnstiing. 
of unwilling guests. 

Without warning the door opened and i/:,:fi» eatne JTti.o the room. 

He was wearing dark blue slacks and a powder blue shirt open at the neck, 
where he had a red and blue bandana knotted. He smiled. 

"Morning, Fishet. How you feeling today?" 

"Like I've been beaten up." 

"Don't he bitter. When you overcome your reluetence you'll find the pay's 
better than you dreamed of." 

"Money doesn't interest me." 

"What does?" 

"Not going hack." 

"I can't he that generous. 1 need yon and your talent." 

"You could get a medium." 

"I could get a private cop, too. Wouldn't beip mi- any more than any medi- 
um would. Otto Case is just too clever a man for that. He won't be called back 
and he didn't leave this thing where anyone can find it. No medium can call 

i back. But you - you can go after him." 

"Not at 

"I shouldn't think yours is 

juld Ic 

«ib - 



I«gan shook his head. "I don't believe that yarn. I know a bit aboi 
stuff. My old lady was a medium. You buy that? One of the best. From 

she was a teenager to the day she died, in her seventies. She could call the 
spirits beck. I've tried mediums, ihtmgh not my mother, rest her soul, and 
the mediums can't rail Use bark. It's up to you and I ain"t swallowing this 
Wt stuff. You want to go, you go back. I intend to make you want to 

Fisher realised suddenly that his hands » >w iisliiSg tic wiped his palms 
on his trouser legs and .spotted small dried flecks of blood on his clothing 
ftum his nose or mouth during the S.«.sS.i«s yesterday, probably He groped 
fist words a moment, then said, "Logan there's a reason I can't go back." 

Fisher continued. "It's not a natural tiling, this talent I . . . had. To die 
temporarily and tome back. I saw thing* you wouldn't believe unless you 
saw them yourself. Terrible things. That drawing in my place-the face- was 
nnc of those things and there"" a lot thete that's worse. " 

"Yon went there lots of times. Couldn't he had if you went all that often." 

"But something happened. I lost my nerve. It's like anything-like flying 
an airplane or fiding a horse. You have to have nerve to do it. Once you lose 
your nerve you never can do it again. 

"Okay. So tell me what happened." 

Fisher stared down at the pristine floor. "I can't." 

"Whatever it is don't matter. Ill pay you enough to make up for it More 
than enough." 

hi his memory. Fisher saw the face again. The green eyes, tile tiale skin, 
hV goltfcu red hair. 

"You can't pav me that much.'" he said. 

The smile was gone from lagan's face. "Maybe »c can. Hut not the way 
you want. No food and in a few davr vou go over on your own. Maybe we 
can bring you back, mavhe we can't. That's the chance we lake. It's up to 

He left ami Fisher heard the door being locked. 

He stared down at the floor and fell sotsie'-hi'ig shaking his hody the way 
a dog shakes a rag dull. That something was fear. 
To go over for fiterll nuriHtes, tlwtt was hell. 
But to go. over and never come back what could vou call that? 

!iedr,^ W !i. J -^,t^^yye., f ,™o, £ er. 

Twenty year*, yonder fl"d. happier. A man with a unique talent that was 
almost a power. A frightening, mind rrvi;wtljt talent that was still an instru- 
ment which could help people. In his own small way he made a contribution 
to mankind. 

Then, ' was L D was It" than a year old and 

Laura and Fisher were as happy as any two parents could he: as happy as any 
two people could be. Thev had their life and the happiness that life gave them 
rain, from taring ' ng to one another came naturally and eas- 

■\y !;> '■■nh i.) them. M &:■<; ii-.ri.i life tuaethe-r purpose ar ,ii m-aning ;ind drew 
them together more closely than any other -,:>m.,k Fisher ever knew. He and 
lauta were perfect for .me another. And Diane made it all the more perfect. 

Then his dream carried him to the day when sharing became hell. 


(J i Ms t 

"Do v 

(Short and his was the power to cross over, to tra- 
vel among the troubled dead. To speak with them, to see them, to hear them. 
It was the one part of his life he shared with no one else. 

At first he opposed Liura's idea. He wasn't sure anyone could cross over 
and return but him. But she insisted and lie rjsvc in. One eight he crossed the 
barrier between life and death and Laura went with him. 

Now in his dream he relived that moment: the sensation of travelling a- 
eross the hellish, unbelievable plains of madness that was the beyond. He flew 
above those plains and at his side flew Laura, frightened, awed and fascinated 
hv the sights he showed her: the masses of the dead wandering lost and hope- 
lessness of death with him, the poinllessliess ol living mejely to he transmitted 
to a place that was an agony much worse than any hell of medieval imagin- 
ed so. accompanied by Uura he toured the places of the dead ami then 
returned to the place of life, Hut he returned without 1-aura. 

Ill his dream he relived the agony of shaking her hody. Irving to recall her 
from her trance only to realize that she would not he recalled. 

He had taken the woman he loved beyond the boundary of life. 

But he had no means to bring her back. 

The door opened and Logan looked in. It was dark now, hut Fisher's eyes 
were accustomed to the dark. He lay on the cot and made no effort to rise 
as he watched Iflgan. 

now more ahout death than any other living man." 

Again no reply. 

"How many times vou cross over?" Lo^ai. asked "You keep count* Hun- 
dreds at least from what I heard. Thousands probably. You seen it. You of 
all men have actually seen \h( afterlife. Tell meahout the afterlife." 

"1 can tell you in four words, Logan. I'm afraid to die." 

That was answer enough for now. More than Logan deserved. Fisher shut 
ilia pyes- iijgtinM the diifkrwss Ms! isritfd the doot dose. !ie tried t.o slepp but 
his stomach ached with hunger, 


in his cell time passed slowly. He thought back. 

He thought to the time when he was just a man with ambitions of lining 
an artist. He was a good painter and he made a small but comfortable living. 
Then he discovered his talent and found a way to do something for others. At 
that point in his life helping others was important to him. He never thought 
that there might lie a price to pav. 

He thought of Diana 

Since the death of laura she hud lived with her grandparents- Laura's folks. 
1'B.her's. par.'in., were dead, and di?d inhvn he was ten years old. 

Once he saw them in afterlife. 

He could never forget that sight. He could not recall why he had gone that 
time: to settle some pntly (juestioil fot someone or other. Most of the trou- 
ble he had solved for people now seemed such petty things-questions of 
"s wishes ahout this or the other triviality. But people 

MkBii S! 

I lie ■ 

He saw them buried in a viscid gray slibManUe that seemed to he the lower 
portions of their bodies melted and joined to the Wain of Madness itself. They 
reached up with clawed fingers, miipin^ f<w him. Thev opened ravening beaks 
UmH-nii of mouth* Th.-: d.isnm;. iiisf <hv dead syffsrf'd m this [doce f rials tsned 
the Momentary Ghost hut none affected him mote than the changes his own 




S mind from the thought of them. He tried to make his: 

think <<i s»m« thing f-U<\ <:i Shi: Intuit r iu his stomach, anything. 
His mind though: ol th( great feat within him. 
The fear that if he did go hack he would see Laura. And he would se 


,s discomfort, Fisher slept. He 

Night passed and morning came. Despite 
was a* : aji«sied by (he ^penisiji ol his r?i\ liont 

He turned toward the door and saw a ghost. 

It was a girl. A beautiful, frightened girl. It was Uura, twenty years ago. 

He cried out and sat up. He scrambled to get to his feet but his weakness 
betrayed him and he fell. The door shut. He got to his feet and stumbled to it. 
"Laura!" he called. He hammered on the door with his fists. 

She did not answer hi* cans Wt! after a time he told himself he had dream- 
ed it. He sank to the floor and swore bitterly beneath his breath. The door o- 
pened again. 

"Ready to discuss a deal?' asked logan. 

"Laura -? Fisher voiced his incompletely framed thoughts. 

"Not 1 .aura," Logan said. "Diana. Hoi* h'tig's >'. ( .«::'i *ince you saw your 

Fisher sat up. The cold logic of what Logan was doing cleared his mind, 
deadened the pain of his hunger. 

"You ready to have a chat with me?" 

"You bastard. You dirty son of a bitch!" 

"If you're afraid to die yourself, how do vou feel about her dying?" Logan 
asked. "She will if you don't do what I want you to do. " 

"Let me see my daughter." 

"CoopeMte with is;;- and you'll we lief i'iie first thing is you have some 
breakfast, iherell he time enough for a family reunion later on." 



chair and felt the softness of uphol 
but drew no comfort from it. 

"Otto Case was my business. Mariner, sort of," 1-ogan was saying, 
something going together. Case died. Now since his death I've had 


his body 
"We had 

locating certain business funds he was in charge of. I think he had a Swi 
bank account and I need information about it. I need the account number 

"Ib that all?" 

"Sure, just a simple little ten minute trip, right?" 

Fisher was unsmiiins; "fr. dfi^nds on Use. If he wants to talk he'll tell n 
I ask him. A lot of them are talkative when they sec someone from 01 

m'( force him to talk." 

"He better talk," said: 

"I hope he will." 

Logan chuckled, almost warmly. "Take it easy, Fisher. Just take it easy. 
You pit nothing to worry about at all now have you?" fie slapped Fisher's 
shoulder. Fisher looked up at him. If U.gtn notion the look in Fisher's eyes 

"Now what do you need?" Logan asked. 

"Not much," Fish?; relied "puiet, solitude." 

Logan frowned. "Is that all? Don't you need n lot of iicople sitlinij-around 

"I don't call the dead. 1 go to them.i need a comfortahle chair in a dark 
room, I need to be left alone. Ill call you when I gel back. And above all else, 
no one must touch my body. " 

"You want us to leave you by yourself, is that it?" Logan's tone was sly. 

"You can guard the room if you like. Jusl don't come in it. You should 
know I'm not going anywhere," 

•'Yeah, I guess you Ye not at that. All right, fisher. It's a deal. You just 
bring hack the word from Otto Case, all right? " 

"If lean." 

"No 'if about it. You make him talk, that's all!" 

"And how do you make a dead man talk, Logan?" 

He sat in a heavily upholstered chair izi the center of a room darkened by 
heavy drapes pulled across the windows. The hack of the chair was high and 
he let his head rest against it, shut his eyes, felt the comfort of the chair. 

It had been so long. , , 

i!e thought back, remembering what it was like before. Recalling the way. 
So many years before. . . Hut he had not forgotten. He could never forget. 

He sank into the comfort of the chair and il was like falling asleep yet he 
wan conscious of it all. His cy« wen* dosed, his *mm i.athed in darkness. 
Then, though his eyes were still shut he could see the darkened room. 

His conscious self struggled against the restraints of its casement of flesh. 

How familiar was that struggle despite the years. How strange to him de- 
spile the familiarity. Il was as if his mind rebelled against its own existence, 
struggled against bars of flesh and bone, hlood and marrow. Struggled with a 
desperate urge for freedom. Straggled-and was free 

loose fr 

drifted above his own body and looked down at the gaunt corpse that sat in 
the chair waiting for his return. 

It was years since ibe .last time be looked down at his own bodv like that. 
Technically, medically and spiritually, he was dead and he knew he would 
remain dead until his return. And if he did not return within a short time-or 
if someone disturbed his waiting body -he would be unable to return. How 
long could he remain outside his body? Not more than a few minutes, pro- 
bably. He had never devised a test for that which he was willing to try. But he 

™ld have all the ■ 

ded, for where he 

« in 

is not tilt 

Nor was space or feeling or purpose or anything else. And he hated it 
And dreaded it. But he had no choice. He sel his mind in a certain wa; 
upon the fabric of existence and the strands unraveled and parted for him. 

Do the Plains of Madness change? 

Gray and brown rolling fields, cut here and there with jagged upthrusling . 
spires of rock. Littered at random intervals with twisted, withered flora: a 
sort of fungus which moved and writhed as if with the pangs of hunger-and 
what it fed on the Momentary Ghost did not care to know. And the plains 

Here nomadic tribes of dead wandered, blinded by the unholy light of the 
eternal sun that shone down upon the plains-a sun lliat was an obscene tra- 
vesty of the sun of that other world they hud known. Here too were others of 
the dead, pale and aimless, each different from the others, each changed hy 
afterlife, each lasting out eternity in his own way. 

Now the Momentary Ghost saw a man rooted to the ground like a tree, his 
abnormally tall body stretching upward toward the skv, bis voice a constant 

high-pitched scream of agony bitten away by the wind. The Momentary Ghost 
saw a melting pool of humanity, of revenants thrown together for whatever 
reason or by whatever whimsy rules these plains to form a lake of molten 
flesh, a camal, fetid mixture of the tormentere. And then- 

Stunted twisted men, their vitals trailing behind their grotesque bodies as 
they crossed gray lava fields- 
Pale zephyr like beings wafted by the wind, grated by the sand, bruised by 
rock6, burned by the sun, frozen by the wind- 

I-ost souls wandering as aimlessly in death as in life- 
All this the Momentary Ghost saw as he sped above the plains of madness 
in search of a man he had never seen. 

In this place Fisher wore, after a fashion, a body. It was like his earthly 
body yet it was paler, more guant, less real-seeming. It was carried by the 
winds above the plains toward the mountains at the edge of the plains-moun- 
tains that thrust up like teeth from the lower jaw of a shark. The wind carried 
his body along and the wind sang to him. But the Momentary Ghost knew the 
song of the wind and he feared and hated it. 
Feared, hated, despised. . . 

And dreaded. For this was afterlife. This was it. All that earthly life leads 
up to-all that mankind really means. And somewhere in the plains or in the 

Don't think of her. Keep your mind from thoughts of Laura. Think of 
something else. Think of Otto Case, the man you search for. Don't think of 

But what if I find her? 

He shut his spectral eyes against the thought but the thought and its agony 

e the Momentary Ghos 


is that edged the 

After i 

Like massive stalagmites of hell the mountains reached toward but they 
did not touch him. Between the peaked mountains he saw canyons and val- 
leys, the beds of acid rivers, uncertain passes obscured by virulent swirling 
mists. Could Laura be somewhere in these mountains, perhaps all but dis- 
solved in some river, or even hidden in some sickening mist? 

Think of something else. Think of Otto Case- 
Then past the mountains where he had never been before. 

He saw jungle. 

A place of fantastic interlwinings of black foliage and strange flowers a- 
mong which his eye caught glimpses of moving things. Misformed things be- 
yond even his experience. He drifted downward and knew this was the place 
for which he searched. That here he would find Otto Caae, 

He settled in a clearing. 

Tall trees twisted in agonising shapes to reach high above him. Vines and 
creepers grew stranghngly around the trunks of the trees and from the vines 
grew black, hideous flowers that dripped a gelatinous oiiy substance that ate 
like acid into the ground it fell on. The Momentary Ghost peered around, saw 
only deeper shadows among the raven trees, yet heard faint meanings of ac- 
customed agony from within the jungle. 

And where was Case? Somewhere around here the Momentary Ghost knew. 

That was part of it, part of the strange power that made him what he 
was. His travels into the realm of afterlife always brought him to the person he 
sought. Yet he saw no sign of Case. Had the years affected his abilities? 

Then a dry rustling as if leaves brushed against one another and liked it not. 

The Momentary Ghost whirled around. Something came into the clearing, 
parting branches at the clearing's edge. 

Otto Case- 

No longer human, too twisted even to be called a parody of his former 

A long, narrow head bobbed at the end of a long pliant neck that seemed 
to grow directly from the creature's pelvis-all that seemed left of the trunk 
of Case's torso. Long, awkward and disjointed legs. A tail, a scorpion's tail. 

The head, bald and narrowed with pointed ears and open, vacant eyes. The 
skin a pale shiny gray. And all about the body a mist like a swarm of insects. 
Moving with a shambling, loping gait, Otto Case crossed the clearing toward 
the Momentary Ghost. 

Grossed and stopped to stand, his long spindly neck craning upward in- 
ward Fisher. The mouth opened and saliva poured out with words. "I am 


aid. "You have come to si 


Now the neck twisted and craned so that the head rose, above Fisher. It 
cocked to one side and agonized eyes, drained of color, peered down at him 
as if trying to imagine a creature stranger than itself. "But why?" it asked. 
"Have you come to do more to me than has been done? Why? Why?" 

"I have come only to talk to you," 

-ling Fisher 

I aim. 

The creature stepped aton 
metit«." Perhaps you have CI 
have you done to me? Why!" 

"I have done nothing to you," replied the Momentary ' 

The grotesquely misshapen hands gestured picaiSiii^iy. ''. 
you look normal. Real. You must know what 8 happen ii;g. W 
understand any of this.'' 
B, there isn'l limi 

id*, choh'ng for i 
changeling that 

'" I'hif-! laid. "Logan w 

misshapen hands reached for fisher's 

s closed light and aqueezed. 

,kj»j>e.i arid struggled, tiring to free 

se was much too strong for him. The 

&d bjrlp ''i"'.'d out for air. 

e Le stiiiffral out? He doubted it, Hut 

"1 ft 

. I r 

ruber I 

«'~K * 

"Yes, a 

e from nowhere." The pale . 

it would hit me. Only i must have passed out. '' 

"h did hit you."' 

"It couldn't. It was going too fast. I would have Ire. n killed, I passed 
It must have served aside. But when 1 eame to I was here and tlie char 
was starting. Where am I? What have you done to me?" 

"I've done nothing. This is death." 

"I can see. T ean feel. 1 ean think." 

"This is death." 

The creature moved quickly, the hesii ffiirsiH usiuo ^tiHileiily Fisher l!i< 
(ase was attacking him. But the eyes stared piea.iir.tti; into his and the 
tare shook not with Curv but with fear. "V<h^ E woke up i «; S . already ■-• 
iB,S Ik, ¥<>« know Knw it began? With my hands, look at them." 

He held them awkwardly for Fisher to see. "Onee I had fine hand-.. Hi 
hands. Strong, clever hands. When 1 was a child I played piano. I retnc 
that. Now my hands have .ii«-i^il My bands. I.ook at them: three fi 
and they're long Better suited for running and climbing than for thi 
hand should do." 

The creature turned away and moved arms, lb.; de^ng. With a move 
that reminded Fisher of the way a eamel kneels, Case fell l» hi- knee-. 
his face into mutated hands. 

"Where am I?" it asked. "What have you done to me''" 

The Momentary Ghost fought hack the urge to try comforting the cr. 
for he knew there was no comfort in hell. "This is whit death is lik< 
said, "When we die, we come here and we change. I've come to ask 
question. Give me vour answer and 111 leave yon alone. 

"I can think, I can feel. That can't he death." 

"But it is. Uo you know your name?" 

"My name? Otto Case-." 

"Do you remember a man named Logan?" 

"Logan?" the creature said. It spat the name like something bitk 
sprang to its feet, turning to glare with baleful eyes at holier. "'" 
here. Not me.' He sent me here. He senl me here where they - 

"My question—" 
"Did Logan send you he. 
this. I saw the driver of that 

»„k tii>- -ff.p hut tr.uld not. S-liseffflfKaorfhisajjony we«- 
ing him. His arms fell vvcaMv. uselessly to We side. '1'rs<w 
;; ;m ? in he. ear* fj ni.iieh th.e agonv in his throat and lungs. 
wily into the malefic face of the creature that once was 

eyes lore from Fisher's gaie and the face grew slack with 

fisher (ell to the 

; as she had been twenty years ago. Her lung 
like a veil across her face but Fisher saw her 
>ered it. He closed his eyes light against the 
me closer and he would see the wavs she had 


III of tin 

creature that had bee 

(1 Otto Case. He o- 

saw > 

fleeing i 

to the raven jungle. 


softly. H, 

anus reached out. tih 

came toward him. 

1 to his feel. He had 

o wish to see how 

He , 

dn't wan 

to know. He cried ou 

an inarticulate cry 


lie wind 

id let it pull his spect 

al body high above 


■ where the fahric of 

pace was lorn and 

tSe mohehtabt ghost 

Bui fie had faik(i. Am! failure meant death- nol just for him, which was a 
thing he peal!}' feared, hut for Diana as well. 

He could hear ihe clock in the room ticking away ihf seconds. How long 
could he slay from his boflv Iwfore he would he pcrmaitctly barred from it? 
Hr did not know. Nor did he care. He thought of Laura as he had known her 
years ago, and m lie had seen \w (list moment* ago. Diana was the important 
one now, the one with the i:hance to live. He could not, would nol, let any- 
thing happen to her. 

Hn i7.ovi.-i few. ihe nwir, (hvotijj.b the wall f.c she cosridor heyond. 

Heffernan was sealed, dozing in o chair outside l''ishff's room. For a mo- 
ment Fisher poised iiWe him. "taring dot-n at she be-i-iy, sleeping man. But 
il was nol Heffernan who interested him. It was Diana. 

He drifted above Heffernan for a moment, testing the psychic vibrations 
in the air ahool him. He could sense Logan, of course, and Heffernan. And a 
thirrl man. [hen he sensed Diana. Not strong, bist :i*v<Ti.heleas close. He drift- 
ed toward her. 

Further down the corridor he drifted through a wall and found her in the 
room beyond. She lay asleep on the bed. She was young and lovely as her 
mother had been; but Fisher saw now thai the reseniUlance to Laura, though 
strong, was basically superficial, Fk* fare wa« shaped liked Laura's face and 
the nose was like her mother's. Seen briefly thev might seem to look the same 
But as he stared down at his riaoghter, Fisher saw that she was not her mother 
but herself, 

Her cheeks were slightly more pronounced than J aura's, an inheritance 
[Kciuips from hf? gsuiit usUii.-.?. She netfiserj, strficiwd out on V\n hsA. a hii 
taller than Laura-hut only a bit. Her eyes were closed hut they seemed dif- 
ferent- though that, of course, might be nothing more than the difference 
brought on bv modern make-up. It was Fisher's first good look at his daughter 
in twenty years. 

She stirred slightly but did not come 
Fisher did no! think she was drugged. He 
hack into the corridor. 

Heffernan still dozed, his chair propped against the wall next to the door 
to Fisher's room. Fisher paused above him, litisririt down, a plan forming in 
his mind. It was wild and impossible, but perhaps it might work. He could 
think of nothing else and realizing that, he did not pause to consider how it 
might fail. 

The Momentary Chost moved down toward Heffernan. Into Heffernan. 

He saw llefferuan's face come to life. The eyes opened, the mouth gaped, 
but Ihe only sound issued was a strange, gating noise, Fisher sank deeper 
into the shell that was Hl'ffiimsil ] ,|t stru^hng as he 

never struggled before, fighting not with Heffernan but with the essentia) ani- 
mating force of the man. 

And it wa* a slru Kfi !e in which fisher outclassed Heffernan completely. He 
shoved and twisted Ihe man s u. IISJ ,\, driviHs it from it's own body. And as 
Fisher drove it out, the body fell forward and the chair slammed to the floor 
as the body toppled from it. 

Itul the battle was over. Fisher saw the pale wispy shadow of Heffernan's 
soul drift upward. He heard the raw, Unearthly soundless scream of the thing 
as apace and time opened up around it, permitting it entry to the afterlife 
Fisher was so familiar with. 

And then it was over and the corridor seemed to echo with its own silence. 

Fisher dropped into the corpse and felt his own anima flow into it, form- 
ing to il like batter to a mold. 

For the first time he was really scared. He had never taken oyer any body 
but his own before -much lest kiHsd ., oisn, Only the knowledge that Heffer- 
nan would not hesitate to kill Diana made Fisher's actions possible. 

He fell awdward in the larger body. Awkward and out of place. Already 
he was aware of strassye, (ii>j;miiii;u cmisculiiiire, different habit patterns and 
appetites. Rut ther< ws no mors Sims He jusdi; the eve* open and stared up 
at the ceiling. He had trouble focusing, then realised Heffernan was in need 
of glasses. To an artist like Fisher, this was disturbing but there was no im- 

rtedsstc ■ 

He flexed the fingers of his right hand, then moved the am 
back to lift himself up. It slipped and he fell He took il more slo 
wardly got to a sitting position. 

Hut could he get up? And if he could, could he walk aroung? 

The questions bothered too much for him to think about thi 
culalure and nervous system were not changed; only the 
trolling them. He had to teach himself to rely on unconscious responses 
tomatic to Heffernan's body and he had to do it quickly. He would be no 
to Diana if il took him forever to leant to use bis new body. 

"What the hell happened to you? " 

FUher looked up and saw the man called LoveUsee earning toward him. 


iging it 

"I heard you fall," Uvelace ssk! "AWt she hell did you do?" 

"I dozed off and fell out of the chair," Fisher said. 

Lovelace gave his head a tiii! ternjiiiiOUiii.hi'fk-. "Might have known." 

"Help me up. will you?" 

■'Yeah," Uvelace said. He bent down and helped Fisher to his feet. 

"Thanks," said Fisher when he was standing. And before bivelacc quite 
knew what was happening, Fisher locked one of Heffernan 's huge arms a- 
round his neck. 

Lovelace flayed his arms savagely, trying to strike Heffernan who was be- 
hind him. Fisher applied pressor.:, felt the muscle of the forearm biting in 
against Lovelace's windpipe. Fisher gave one final effort and yanked the arm 
tight against the other man ■ throat, heard a brief gurgle and felt the man go 
limp in his arms. He dropped Lovelace to the floor and let him lay there a 
minute while Fisher recovered his own breath. He stared down at the body 
and wondered, will I meet this », iSl . i„ ufs. i -. ( litVV Or IWSernan? For be knew 
now that this could end only with his own death as well. 

He found an empty room and dragged Lovelace into it. Closing the door 
he went into the hall and moved to the door of Diana's radio. He found keys 
in Heffernan's pocket and am of item OflfXiPd the door. 

Diana was seated on the side of Ihe hed, her face drawn, pale with fright. 
Kskr- r«i SB ,i :, !Wr l„ hi, lips i;> a ;;csa^ oi <lle ( ,c r . ! 1Wi ~,» sHyiW.s!." 
he said. "I've come to gel you out of this." 

She looked pleadingly at him and Hie look was reminiscent of Laura. Fisher 
crossed the room to the window and looked out. The grounds were empty 
and there was no wall or gate. Hot there were bars on the window. 

"Ginic on," he said and led her to the corridor. 

He had only a vague idea of the layout of the house but he managed to get 
her to the garage, which was built on just off the kilchen. There were two 
cuts Ifitm imd 3 ,.!,:,U rf-plk:a of a bee:.*; piste , jn ih-ifeit.^'s kev ,:liaie (old 
Fisher which ear he had keys for. He handed the keys to Diana and said, "(Jet 
out of here. Go straight to lite police and tell ihem what happened." 



vsnty vea-N. 

She started for the car, then slopped and turned back. "I don't understand 
any sit this. Why ,;:>.■ yau~ " 

"1 haven't time to explain." 

"Then will you at leasl tell me who that man is?" That strange looking 
man you keep locked up?" 

It was the first time Fishet realised Diana had not seen him in 
It came as a shock to him and as something of a disappointment 

"It's a man named James Fisher," he said, 

She said nothing. But the look on her face told him enough; it told him 
that .ihe knew who James Fisher was. For a moment she seemed on the verge 

"Get out of here," he said. "He's already taken care of. You'll see him 
soon enough." 

She accepted his lie and got into the car and drove off. Fisher watched her 

' : iVis:i?', »uirig ok here?" 

Fisher turned and faced Logan, 

"That was the girl!" Logan said. 

"You don't need her. Let her go," 

"What's got into you? She'll go straight to the cops-." He tried pushing 
past Fisher, heading for his cas. Fisher clamped onn of Heffernan's ham-like 
hands on lagan's shoulder and spun him around, shoving him back into the 

Logan fell sprawling to the floor. He stared up at Heffernan, a look of min- 
gled astonishment and disbelief on his face. 

"What's got into you? Heffernan, you-'' 

"Not Heffernan," Fisher said. "Heffernan's dead." 

Logan's mouth snapped shut. 

"Heffernan's with Case now," Fisher said. "He won 'l be coming back." 

"Fisher-," Logan said, 

"Thai's right." 

Logan's hand darted into his jacket, Fisher had not guessed he was carry- 
ing a gun. 

The gun fired once. It's sound, magnified by the closeness of the kitchen 
walls, beat on Fieher'e senses «s Si;; pungent acrid odor of the powder stung 
his nostrils. Fire stabbed through his middle and spread like shattering glass. 
Fisher put a hand to Heffernan's stomach and drew it away, wet and sticky 
with blood. 

He fell to his knees and toppled forward, groaning with the pain of it. He 
glanced up and saw Logan getting to his feet. 

"Ill fix you[" Logan shouted "III fix you!" 

He fir? d again and the bullet plowed into IMferMiss shoulder, down into 
hil chest, spreading more flaming agony, Fisher could nut hold bark the cry 
of pain as Logan truned and ran back into the house. Hut through the clouds 
of pain Fisher understood what Logan intended to do. 

Heffernan's body was no longer any use to him, H.' abandoned it and l.-ft 
it dead and bloody on the floor. 

Logan ran to the room where Fisher's body waited and Usher followed 
after him. Logan threw open the door and Fisher dived for him. Hut Fisher 
moved loo late. 

The gun fired twite. Fisher sow the bullets rip holes in the bark of the 
chair, saw his inanimate body jerk twice and pitch forward to the carpel. 
Logan laughed wildly, like the madman be was. "1 win!" he shouted. "1 fixed 
you, Fisher, Really fixed you!" 

Fisher struck. 

He drove his own anima down into the shell of Logan's- body, driving the 
essence of the eriniinnl out. Logan realized what was happening, tried out jit 
fear, thrashed the air uselessly in bis panic 

But he eould not stop the Momentary Ghost. 

Fisher grappled with that part of Logan that be hated, grappled with it and 
threw it from Logan's body. The thing drifted upwards yelping small, fright- 
ened sounds that only Fisher eould hear. A rift grew in space to accomodate 
the thing and Logan passed through to the Mains of Madness. 

For a moment Fisher wore lagan's body. But for a moment only. He 
could not continue life in a borrowed body -especially not Logan's. The 
moment he feared was upon hiin. No longer was he the momentary ghost 


»ng k 

red he < 


! say. After 

; e to the t 

.Strange parasitic flowers dripped caustic oils on the ground and from the 
jungle moir cries of wounded things. Case stood there and a chill seemed to 
touch him, his first awareness of any sensation of heat or cold since coming 
to the afterlife. 

He turned. At the clearing's edge was Laura. 

Young and beautiful, her face veiled by wind blown hair. After a time he 

"Hello," she said, "I've waited for you James. " 

"1 was afraid. Afraid uf what I'd done to you." 

"You haven't hurt me, James. Not really, I've been lonely, that's all." 

"But I have. I know 1 have. I know what happens here. The changes. I 
never forgave myseii that. I :*•',« -:ould face up to it, I don't want to see how 
yon have thanged." 

"look at me." 

He wanted to plead with her, to run,to ignore what had happened to her. 
Hut he knew he could put this off no longer. He was a ghost for real now with 
an eternity in afterlife before him. He went to her and brushed the hair from 
her fate. 

It was the same face he remembered. The very same. He took her in his 
arms and held her for the first time in twenty years and it was as if they had 
never been apart. After a time he kissed her, gently and fervently at the him 
lime, u kiss cona lining all the pent-up emotions of two decades. 
"You haven't changed," he said. "You haven't," 
"No Jame*. Come with me. I have something to show you." 

How long he wandered ihe Plains of Madness he did not know, could not 
Bay. Bat after a time he saw lflgan. He saw him, the scattered physical remains 
of the man littering a glassy sprit. Diwissetafcifid, scattered parts of him lay a- 
boitt the place whining and pleading, asking forgiveness of anything at all. 
And all that time the mprcikss [rswe-ty of the sun beat down. 

But no change touched the ghost the eternal ghoi-t -of James Fisher. 

He wandered among the damned, a pale guaril figure losl and aimless but 
not victim to the tortures most of the others felt. .Sometimes he saw others 
like himself; but most of the ones he saw were like Uigan or Case or his own 

She took his hand and reached out with her other arm. Her hand seemed 
■i toueh something -and something parted, fell aside. Space itself. There was a 
lit and something lay beyond that rift. 

"1 don't understand— ," he began. 

She smiled at him. "You've seen only part of afterlife. There's abetter 

.She tugged at his hand and led him through the rift. The rift closed after 

How Do You Kick Off a New En In Fantasy Reading Pleasure? 










WITCHCRAFT AND SORCERY will feature these and other stories In the 
near future, plus such regular features as E. Hoffmann Price's JADE PAGODA 
and our DEPARTMENT OF POINTED TALES. They'll be in the company of 
other stories by those same writers as well as August Derleth, Ramsey Camp- 
bell, Brian Lumley, George Zebrowski, Carleton Grindle, Edmund Shirlan, 
Ross Rocklynne and many others. And to top it all off, our stories will be 
illustrated by artists such as the Phoenix Award winning Jeff Jones, Hugo 
Award winning Tim Kirk, Stephen Fabian, Robert E. Jennings, Steve Fritz, 
D. Bruce Berry and Jerry Burge. 

Fantasy is back. Newer, more exciting than ever before. WITCHCRAFT 
AND SORCERY heralds a new tradition— and you won't care to miss the 
trend setters! 


He had to escape and he knew an escape route. But he could 
not be certain where escape would lead. . . 




by Leon Zeld is 


He came in quite late, that Aaken. He was a lillle bird of a man, perhaps 
five feet tall, paunchy, bowlegged, staring with a short, slanted head that grew 
out of his body like a misplaced mushroom. There was something deliberate 
in his movements. He had an avuncular way of poising himself before taking 
the first step, and of standing still in a position suggestive of unstable equili- 

He was a Dutch jew. Probably managed to hide himself for a while, but 
eventually they caught him and here he was, in the camp with the rest of ub. 
By chance, he came to sleep on the bunker above mine, empty since Johannes 
was killed by a guard in a Sporting Night. They had played William Tell, that 
particular night, if I remember correctly. I don't know exactly the manner of 
his death, and 1 don't want to know. Johannes and 1 were friends. 

There was little conversation among ub, yet gradually I came to feel a cer- 
tain attachment for Aaken. Perhaps it was because he seemed so unable to 
cope with the situation in which he found himself. He was not lost, but sunk 
in a sea of unfathomable depths, where gravity did not work, where his pre- 
vious modes of reference did not apply at all. After a while, he confided brief 
snatches of his private life, of what he had been before. Before. 

"What I cannot suffer," he said to me once,"is not so much the filth, the 
cold, the hunger or the death. They are horrible, but I can understand these 
things. They are, in a sense, human. No, they are humane. What 1 can't bear 
to watch is humanity debauched and made a mocking earicature of itself. 1 
hurt at the deliberate obliteration of beauty." 

I did not like him to talk like thai. Partly, I did not understand him, and 

partly. I was afraid of somebody else ovcrh raring us. You never knew. "'I will he taken not of 

The ficndishness of the guards,"' fir continued, "lies not in their killing shall paint. How I -hall |.aii 

i». but in that they will first make us less than human." His voice IrcmUed i 

He way an Idealist. I eon Id see that, in the botlom circle of hell, hi- still lean a comforting hand oie 

c.iHsidvred nice, imaginary platitudes like humanity and beauty, i tried to "I know, I know." In: 

I fmuid out that he IiliH been a painter. Hi* speciality had been making marl, devils, are all differet 

aerate epics of old masters for the tourist trade. That, at least, accounted can't eoimnnniraie upvvar, 

for his unusual perception of our nightmare. It did not explain his frequent le g you. Soon.'' lie .-to 

ftV 'iiud by then become numb, and looked fur ward to nothing, except Without another word, 

scavenging for some additional scraps of food. Aaken, on the other hand, still bis way to a dark coiner nl 

i l! r a Ir i r II haps hallucinations indued 

i; hell, from night to nighl, burning their sweet, soft coal. Still. I had my doubt, 

Me drew well, although 1 wasn't then able to admire his hand. I know nu- started to n 
ibiiic atAMii (.iiit^isi". Mrv'-fliie.b as, I would -sv iiial iii's drawisa was firm and had been no reported attempt to 
r.;<iimr. Hi-JKiasifWiiun was uneanny. Willi a few noes I..- transtiiuted ahand and there, if Hie iicrmaus bad no 
' ' , He feared the guards, so he used a private code of hi- took to be Aaken. Yes, it bad the 
own. Everyday objects, like a glass, a bowl, a hook, became sinister, evil wasn't Aaken. Kven if I c. !U i«lr. J tr- 
illings. " l,,u "" l '"■hifiK to tlie mail I km- 
"I waul to rememher." be said to me once. 'The world must he warned. 1 Sim, afterward-, and nut a m 

* 1 pitied him. He must have suffered mure keenly than the rest of us. Yet, we did our best to forget what » 

he seemed to change, somehow. He withdrew more and more within himself, going to sleep, I would remcml.n 


mumble -omethinr. about "the beings" or the "the powers", which I couldn't 

begin to understand. 1 tried, out of pity, to lead him hack to the realities a- ■—,. ■-, , «,. ■ -,„.,«, * ,, 

round, to the need to gel some more food, to avoid sudden chills, hut he dllt ai d I i 

lie was becoming desperate. I could see the signs. He would soon do s-mo- unients, cathedrals, (be I'la-a de 

thine foolish, like spitting at a guard, or trying to slide under the barbed ' I I l 1 

Of course, I didn't Irv to disuade him. What for'' Some today, some to I'elhsh color., hanging before me. 

morrow It was his own life to lose. However. I did talk to him. only to make With unsteady limhs, 1 came c|. 

sure that he didn't come u,i willi anything stupid, like selling fire to the '-r- h I I 

the group, lo Madri, 

Haled by flashes 
i. I I I'M d 


sickly < 

- I i , i Id i I ' ived although it had So Aaken had made h 

later, Honked for oil, 

1 found an' open gale. I ea..'l survive here much longer. Now is' the time lo lo which il would" fall, 
take the final step through the Dark Door." through his brush. 

He stopped for a moment, as if considering whether he had said loo much Who knows? He may 


by Edith Qgutsch 

and Ross Rocklynne 


The ideas were coming harrier! Our lai! Todd Ray hum was in a solemn 
fret. His mixed-up thoughts aped the clatter flooding in through the open 
window of the midtown advertising agency. Traffic honked in his head. Ve- 
hicles labeled hope and despair coHided on the intersections of his face. In the 
hallway two children laughed. Ah, children' They were only ideas themselves, 
created from the old cliche of boy- meets-girl-- yet each one new. Restlessly, 
Todd reached for the twisted cord of the electric typewriter which spiralcd 
the confusing energies of its dreadful hum throughout his brain. Possibly tin- 
poor fellow thought to straighten the cord, which by a sympathetic magic 
>uld straighten out his thinking processes. Instead - 


Some idea, this wa 
-dissolving himself av 
now quite empty! 

However, here he \ 


lad km 
that the 

eking himself c 


ot only that, 


ft the tortured fel 

mply field of sun-dried 

weeds, as luck would have it. 

"Oh, oh, oh!" cried Todd, cowering away from a range of gray hills off lo 
the left and swaying in equal shock from a strange grav highway on his right. 
Above, a cloudless sky made him a focal point of icy blue. A shrunken yellow 

Todd Rayburn Learned Why Men Have Ideas; Only Now the Ideas Had Him 

sun had at him wi til daffodil Wis. No birds flew overhead, no inner L or ani "Class;" 

mal stirrer! in 111.- burned weeds. "Class A. sir. and vou can see. .-,r. I'm a bright fine indeed, a first magni 

The unfortunate voting man, plucked from his own time and place, could (uil<- idea, it v.m please, if yon dou'l mind my calling juiir attention In my 

only groan and put'his hands before his eyes. How long would the illusion obvious qualifications. I 'in here, as yon may press, to rcporl a Slip." 
last? No one could tell. Therefor,- with » ihr-ot-mi! dioc on *hH, his heavy "Von are," cried tli<: i-lcrk. ^iffWdrij. a hi I as lie poise! the pencil again, "a 

silver chain-nccklacc and medallion glinled. only In match the glint of bravery most talkative idea! Aren't yon ever going I., run down; Must you slaml there 

The roari 'wa i> pout loam -rubber, il would seem, and so he vour headlamps al three times the usual caiullcpowcr? Origin!" 

spiritedly eon-red three miles in no time at all, whereupon a group of build- The idea, for such it indeed was, stepped forward, its lieadlamp growing 

it,*-, rose up heside th? jtrsv hells There were isjrfv factories which looked like even brighter, if that wen- possible. It said eagerly, 

large Wricks, and there were Ugly offiw-buildiugs which looked like small half- "Sine von <lo ask. sir, ami not : I beg y o believe, because I am anxious 

spheres, Todd Kavburn, however, Hid not have lime to make a judgement a- to brae; about myself, I was aelnally created, not by machine, but in the bead 

gainst the architect, whoever he rnighl he, for ju.-t then, praise be, Ihe scene of an eminent anil most rcperled top advertising cm-chHyc. I bat was two 

came In life. years ago." 

Todd was overjoyed. The idea stepper! back and hung it. head. 

A group of Vires marched from one of the factories Thev marched "But alas. I wasr.l really .. welcome ihooghl. The ad man was busy with 
straight toward him. other projects. \fler awhile, woe i- me, I -lipped bis mind, and here 1 am!" 
Todd was now dismayed! "Vers- much so." fowled the irritated clerk, dashing off a last line of writ- 
He had l.i jump quickly off the road to let them pass. Even in the middle ing and thrusting the completed form at the lost idea for its signature 
of his hurried jump, which he accomplished with marvelous ease owing to the "Great!" enthused Hie idea, scribbling. The h-adlanip suffused the room 
rematkahle springiness of the remarkable foam-rubber road, he was able to with a remarkable hrighln.--. 

note the grayness of naked bodies, the formless sameness of their fans. "That makes von available again," the clerk said, yawning ami losing inler- 

The most curious thin,, about their appearance, however, was a tiny headlight est. "Co on back to Synapse." 

secured to the tops of their hairless heads. Willi a jaunty air, the idea swept .-randls out the door, almost knocking 
It was a most amazing procession, poor, stunned Todd Rayburn to a silling position on the yellow ground. 
The creatures must have seen him as they filed by; if so, they ipnored him. "Wait!" he cried after the speedup idea. I be idea heard him.' and earn e rap- 
Anxiously straining his ears, however, our lad picked up a few muttered lines idly, eagerly, back. 

"Ah, comrades, well find Synapse Held o'er yon hill, so my brain cell tells ly in the eyes. "Did you want me. sir?" 

"Ah dr. declare, Ah'll he overjoyed to find mall proper home 'nealh the idea Hi: em'br .1 1 im_ I I irn h rlv lo his chest. The iilej 

magnolia tree, or some such." gasped with surprise, In inyr to pud, Todd away. 

"Yeah, yeah man! We're goin" to he thought of" "Stop struggling," Todd polled. "Von should feel nattered I want you." 

lW,i by this astonishirc: .nb: rebate. Todd Hayhurn r:ould only stare lie continued struggling with the idea. 
from feverish eyes as thev rlisappeared around a bend in the grav hills. Then, "lint that isn't the way lo do it, *ir! Here, look into my headlight. Imagine 

tottering a hit, liis band clutching at bis medallion as if he could sel lo rest the a ligh! in vour brain, hanging there in a kind of balloon. Thin', you've 

sickly throb in his solar pleMis. he approached the open door of the factory got it, sir. Already I'm beginning to dwindle." 
whence the creatures came. And it was true. As the soft grav hoih shrank in on itself, a rewarding hell, 

Todd stooped onlv a little to enter the (aelorv, ihe pound of the machines ness filled Todd's mind. "Wow '." he cried, smacking his lips as the idea totally 

swelling in his car even before he came, to the working area, and helpfully climbed inside lion, lie nibbed his hands in brisk satisfaction. 

"Ah!" cried Todd Rayburn, transfixed. The size of the machines was fan- So that's why lie was hire: Now lo get hack to his own world, 
taslie. "Oh no!" lie groaned unbelievingly, hands thrown up. He had never How would he get hack; Return, of course, lo Ihe field where he made his 

seen such shapes before. "Oh. my:" he gasped, almost ready to run from the entrance. That seemed tin- logical thin,- to do. lb walked rapidly in Ibis dirrc- 

was busv manufacturing the creatur* who or Ihe road <""' ■> l'il»'-ss eve of sky. for the nmmcnl. however, the voting man from 

Yes. it was absolutely true. Humming and dirking, the vast machines h '«lh was full of enthusiasm, determination, and a wonderful idea' Oh, the 

i ( < I ' I 

steam and pressed „ small headline. ! «ik. the '.i;;iv naked h™,:l. Where the band Huh, be grunted to himself, who's talented'' Worry now started gnawing 

disappeared into Ihe floor, the beings stepped away and remained standing his conscience. Thief, thief: f Time doesn'l pay! Murder will out: ('.beat, cheat, 

iiap»e Field. " ' away from his delegable self, 

tint who ran the machines? Todd raised his eves ami thought hi' saw linv Suddenly, without wartime he was bit as if bv a cyclone. Three hurtv fig- 

human figures near the vast ceiling. Slowly he walked backward, toward ihe ures threw him lo (he ground and proceeded lo punish him. Hard fists crashed 

exit. His presence probably was a profane event, anil he had no-intention of into hi- chest, pounded his luck, and bounced him against the pound. Todd 

plained terror, he retraced his slops, ' at last. Ihe young fellow collapsed ■ I !( , 

disphasun Ih, sky wa- .till I I i idll '" * building marked Personnel." 

forces here'; At this moment, a solitary j£Mi hM* :-pee,l,:J from tlu: distance. \ irausluccicc worked through Todd's struggling eyelids, lie was standing, 
bouncing spiritedly down the foam-rubber road, It walked |^n<"sc.ullv to- or heine held creel. „n a floor like skimmer! milk, and Ihe walls, curving into 
ward a small office building, its headlamp burning brightly. a dome; were made of Ihe same material. The continuous now of walls inlo 
I'or whatever reason unknown al the moment to young To 'd riavburn. he eeilinelcnt the hall an illusion of v.,sliios. S<d| indireel lighting fell on the men 
was fascinated l.v the intensity of the creature's beam. Indeed, , ■ felt a shock- ,-,ulcd m the center of the rolumla. Thev wee eonleiuplating a globe which 
ing lust for that brilliance. His eyes glittered, his inolllll snarled. He tiploed spin, [ |ireelly beneath ihe Moor and when Todd was dragged nearer to them 
after Ihe being, but arrived at the small one-room office building just in time they looked'up. His captors pushed him forward for inspection, fjgbt pairs of 
to keen the door from hanging shut. eves regarded him thoughtfully. As oil. lads eyes opened all Ihe way. he sick- 
He looked through to a desk. There, behind ihe desk, sat a very ordinary is'hlv noted lllai the globe was a model „f I'.artb. a very remarkable likeness. 

blank eyes, poised a pencil, and hundred: ' Todd's surprise, lie smiled cordially. 


tead for im<? A mi* 

rablc Einprlst.Hnwftl ir 

the brain 


man who allow 

"Hair.' I'm the cr 

ator of those ideas?" 

"InrWii, »h\" 

"Oh, oh. oh:" P 

fd Todd. ■'I'm a hi'll 

r man III, 

1 til 


struggled in hi* rxo 

lenient to rise in his 

-liair: il w. 

s in i 

in. He fiiuld d. 

i hut lliill. 


and fuat tt when j 




i probably aros 

from the friction «> 

the dissatisfied stole 

idea -emir 


round irtsitlf- hi 

al's our biggest problem. "You want to go free?" Todd asked the idi-a. 

I have to get back to the go. Punch me out of 111, machine. It'-ca-y. Von hit a yellow key and a black 

■■- I In- idea back to vou. make sure I'm -vnchronous in -pace ami lime. Ill (ro. sir, I'll neves- double 

von again. I'll flv'like a bir.l to .Sy,,ap-e Field and grab myself ,i nice hit brainy 

■Hut it's nf tin- i f ucs- advertisinECxeeutive. on,- wlioll -meat me on In, bread to sec how 1 spread " 

"Yon am talkative," remarked Todd liavburn. ".-ihul up. we both want to 

hling, Todd was dra Sg(i( | grt (llll u( llm , n | lnakt . ., j,.,,^,, ^n, v(lll . |'|| puneb yon out of the ma- 

Todd explained what i.c wanted. The idea was diiiriou-. It rolled and bloat- 

■aplors, speaking for the ( . d l]I1( , 0m f (jrtal) |j. ;„ r, M |d\. brain. Todil would he quite happy when he was 

rid of thai diBiitfv.-ssIf!'' lo.iuac.ious idea. In any event the bargain was made, 

n through the rear entrance of Tod(| h „ d '„,„ ,;„, ,., ,;,,^. !v k( . vs alu] t(l| , idt!a J^^d i,„ t a,it|y out of 

'■"■»''"■"- '"* throne t |„ madlil „. ' " 

omingoul. Thr it |,. a sUvt , d 0|] th( , strip uriti | it ,.,.,,,;,.,.,; Us headlamp, at which mo- 

r, l..p oi (r..- oiily mne.ive idea r,-is<:h.fif ai! d toe,, R , t , ni u , Fj ,.;,,„ ljf ^ ,, iK j r<i( „ ji]v ( .| Lm!je( j ,;„. , : ,,: C ; M „ ( . , !!k , l^dd's 

e operator's chair. Mi- feel were shackled firmly, cll(jidlJ . ' 
j-ted abonl his bead: silver wires in turn led into "You're not .-nidi a bad fellow," the idea panted, "and ynu might have a 

of the men, pressing various colored studs as he jn „ wj) , j gain-t the panel. 

ipulate the pane!. "You'll soon eel the idea. See "Maybe you and I can make a deal, "the idea said as the panel turned into 

'odd threw curse.- aller them steadily for (en mill- Todd L 

1 slarled toying with, the colored studs. It was real- and reappeared at his won desk at his own electric typewriter. Sitting across 
watching ideas fall oul of the machine. The gears from him, legs crossed, was the gray soft form of Ihc idea, which now reached 

Mmm it ai j give me an idea. Yes, sir, I'm 

bodies moved down the strip. As they readied the kind of idea that ireli ideas, as you can see bv mv headlamp! I'm so brilii- 

piirklmg headlight- were s,-t into their bald heads ant, sir, such a ("iradcOrie, Class A idea, sir, that'it occurred to me I could he 

door. 3 Si.>*!otsat Siini'i-e i>i lir'ljj ;nd iiispiciijon to yon in ill your hours of need - 

from his helniel into the machine -and what were "Oct l.;st." laid Tod:] -lowly. "1 don't need anv idea- that aren't mv own. 

I'm ipdlc full of ideas. H .-member.'" 

uirmed. grew like a balloon in hi- head, lie had The idea nodded gloomily and rejcctedly and -rw leavinga lungful 

oleii idea; ,o had hi* captor-. of -moke liungitig IVagrantlv in the air. Todd iilhii+ed his typewriter, really 

Led sharply, -mashed into it. In the next three weeks his work was drawn to the Mvxkm 

of lure." the stolen idea whimpered. It was speak- of hi- thoughtful superior. Within a year our hid, young Todd tUvburn, who 

I didn't bargain for *i\ hundred years imprison- wisely kept to himself the story of his inspirit advi-niures in the world of the 

lianl idea. Mow could you do (hi- to me/.' Uisould j *-.«*, wfts „.,.|! on ihc i,s»- and de.erveillv so!-lo the very top of bis chosen 

I he flagpole to see how I wave. Instead, what is a- profession. 


. . . The editor's or the readers'? The editor selects the stories, of courts, »nrl 
bases his selection on his judgment. But the readers' opinion is final. If you don't 
like the magazine, you stop buying il. If enough people stop buying it, the maga- 
zine goes out of business. We value your opinion and hope you'll talte the time 
to fill out the Readers' Poll Coupon on pages 63 and 6*. Your ratings will tell ul 
what we're doing right and wrong. 

But, of course, if you don't want to eut up the magaiine we Still have the highest 
regard for your opinions. Send us your story ratings on a postcard — or better yet 
send us a letter with your comments on this issue. We plan to keep a tally of the 
results and list the most popular stories and features in a coming issue. 

More importantly, we plan on basing future decisions on 3 

— Tht Editor 


Howard Phillips Lovecraft (1890-1937) was not only the author of such 
brilliant macabre stories as "The Dunwich Horror" and "The Colour Out of 
Sparc'' but the author as well of scores of the most fascinating letters ever 
penned. August Derleth and Donald Wandrei have assembled Selected Letters 
by H.P. Lovecraft of which the first two volumes have been published at $7.50 
each by Arkham House (Sauk City, Wisconsin 53583) with the third volume 
due perhaps by the time this magazine appears. The following four letters are 
from the forthcoming fourth mlume and were written to ('lark Ashton Smith 
during 1932 and 1933 

This was a period when the writing of horror fiction in America was at a 
relative height, with several ready market?, for well-done weird stories includ- 
ing Weird Tales, edited by Farnsworth Wright, and Strange Tales, edited by 
Hurry Hates (who would later write the classic science fiction story "Fare.weH 
to the Master'".) Lovecraft was busy not only with his own fiction, but with 
revising sUariv./i far roientSi'.f.n fVs* raiahlishud writers, including Rev. Henry S. 
Whitehead. His correspondents included most of the best known fantasy writ- 
ers of (hi- period, including Robert E. Howard, August Derleth, Frank Belknap 
hmgand E. Hoffmann Price. 


Four Letters to Clark Ashton Smith 

by H.P.Lovecraft 

To Clark Ashton Smith 

In the orange, carmine, and blue-litten 
zone at the end of the Angles . . . beyond the vague twilight a- 
bysses. Hour of the sounding of (he gong at the bottom of the 
unplumbed pit. 

. i.6. W32 

r Klarkash-Tor 

The only basic trouble with premature bruial tales is that 
they do not take into account the universal practise of embalm- 
ing. The way to get around that, of course, would be to provide 
very particular reasons why embalming is dispensed with in the 
given case. 

Yrs. in the nameless sodality of Nyarla- 


To Clark Ashton Smith 

Leaden hillside of Pnapf on the green— 
litten planet Hchah in Dimension IN ; hour of the voice and vapor 
from the bottomless cleft. 

March 2, 1932 

Copyright 3 970 by August Derleth and Donald Wamlrei-by pet 
mission of Arkham House. 

Dear Klarksah-Ton: — 

I liave a sort of time idea of very simple nature floating a- 
round in the back of my head, but don't know when I shall ever 
get around to using it. The notion U that of a race in primal Lomar 
perhaps even before the founding of Olathoe and in the heyday 
of Hyperborean Commoriom— who gained a knowledge of all arts 
and sciences by sending thought- streams ahead to drain the minds 
of men in future ages-angling in time, as it were. Now and then 
they gel hold of a really competent man of learning, and annex 
all his thoughts. Usually they only keep their victims tranced for 
a short time, but once in a while, when they need some special 
piece of continuous information, one of their number sacrifices 
himself for the race and actually changes bodies with the first 
thoroughly satisfactory victim he finds. The victim's brain then 
goes back to 100,000 B.C. -into the hypnotist's body to live in 
Ixmiar for the rest of his life, while the hypnotist from dead aeons 
animates the modern clay of his victim. Complications can be i- 
magined. I have no idea how-or from what angle-I shall elabo- 
rate the thing. 

Yrs. for ultimate abysses, 

To Clark Ashton Smith 

Yoth-Tlaggon - at the Crimson Spring 

Hour of the Amorphous Reflection. 

Apr. 4, 1932 
Dear Klarkash-Ton: — 

I'm now helping Whitehead prepare a new ending and back- 
ground for a story Bali* ha™ r^jt-eii'd. The original told of a young 
man who humped his head and thereafter heard sounds as of a 
mighty cataclysm, although the city around him was quiescent. 
It was supposed to be due to a result of the bruise— which made 
the fellow's head a natural radio and enabled him to hear the Jap- 
anese earthquake— which was occuring at the time. Bales rightly 
thought this tame, so I am having the cataclysm and its cause 
somewhat different. I am having the bruise excite cells of heredi- 
tary memory causing the man lo hear the destruction and sink- 
ing of fabulous Mu 20, 000 years ago! 

Yrs. for the nether sign 

To dark Ashton Smith 

Shores of the Black Uke Tlai 

Time of the Moonless Tide and the 

Rising of . 

Feby. 18, 1933 
Dear Klarkash-Ton: - 

Price has dug up another cycle of actual folklore involving 
an allegedly primordial thing called The Book of Dzyan, which 
is supposed to contain all aortB of secrets of the Elder World be- 
fore the sinking of Kusha (Atlantis) and Shalarali (Lemuria.) It 
is kept at the Holy City of Sham ball ah, and is regarded as the 
oldest book in the world— its language being Senior (ancestor .of 
Sanscrit,) which was brought to earth 18,000,000 years ago by 
the Lords of Venus. I don't know where E. Hoffmann got hold 
of this stuff, but is sounds damn good. . . 

Yrs. for the Pnakotic Secrets— 


A Tourist Guide to Haunted Houses and Unexplained Mysteries- 
New England— New York 

by Andre Notion 


Though one is inclined to think of haunted houses, in explainable mysteries, 
sb being British and European rather than native to this side of the Atlantic, 
even the most limited research will provide the seeker with a list of such sites 
to visit. New England and New York have them in plenty. 

Begin at Machiasport, Maine, where the first recorded American ghost made 
herupsetting appeal -siv:£, lv<M sjraciosis sscstin:^ with many spectators, staged 
special perform an ees for the skeptic, and ended by arranging a new marriage 
for her bereft husband! 

In the house of Aimer Blaisdel (much to his subsequent discomfort) Nelly 
Butler first made her return known on the night of January 2, iHOO, when 
she asked that her father be summoned to speak with her. Since Nelly had 
been safely in Iter grave for some time, this situation nts, delicate. Yet David 
Harper, her father swore it was Nelly he spoke with. Sha made several appear- 
ances during the following months, mainly hi the teller, because, as she ex- 
plained, she had no wish to frighten the children of the house, 

Abraham Cummings, pastor of the Congregational Church, coming as a 
skeptic, went away a convert. Later he was to set hi= story, together with 
those of others, in the first known published account of an American ghost. 

The ghost made herself visible not only to members of the Blaisdel family 
(who came to look upon her cottiinueti visitations as a curse because of the 
notoriety) but showed herself to the many curious visitors attracted by the 
tales. In addition she urged marriage between her former husband and Lydia 
Blaisdel. When the censorious gossips suggested that Lydia herself might be 
responsible for such an odd proposal, Nelly considerately appeared when 
Lydia could not have possibly acted the part. 

Having achieved her purpose Nelly finally left the exhausted Blaisdels and 
the overwrought neighborhood in peace. But she was not to be forgotten. 

Pass on to Kennebunkpnrt, to the ghost house now part of the theater 
holdings. ,We are told that the attic is the focal point of the haunting, as well 
aathe second floor front bedroom. Though old lady Wells, a herbal wise worn-. 

an, lived the. last twenty years of her life in that room, dying at the age of a 
hundred and twenty-four, she is not the "good grey ghost." That is another 
"Nelly", a woman wearing Quakoi garb, SOTnKtimcS by "Ned". 
her male counterpart. Their history is unknown, but Mill they peer from win- 
dows or walk the night. 

Wiscasset next, and the I-cc-PaysoihSmith house on High Street. The old 
lady who appears when the family is nut there, rocking in the front parlor, 
is reputed to he of the family of Govcmer .Samuel K. Smith who bought the 
house in 1836 (it was built in 17 n 12). There is a dour also, leading to a wing 
since burned, where a dog scratches for entrance (he is said to have hern the 
only companion of a recluse who once lived in the vanished wing). But the 
old ladv who sits in the parlor with gentle satisfaction conns. Ihev sky. be- 
cause having suffered man? grevious family losses, in the end she had' only the 
house to love. She docs not intrude, she just wants to lie home. 

The old Shaw Place at Ncwficlii lias good reason to be haunted if ever a 
house did. for Hannah, a daughter of the house, is buried within its walls, her 
tombstone a corner of the kitchen floor. One of the rare instances of such 

Yet the same is true of the famous house of Ocean Born Mary al Henniker, 
New Hampshire. Mary's story is fabulous enough to be fiction, siifl il is rooted 
in fact. It begins on July 28t'h of (he vrar ! W). IV ship Wolf bearing Scotch- 
Irish emigrants to the new world was in sight of Ihe Massachusetts coast when 
it was overhauled by pirates. Captain James Wilson, without any defenses, 
had to stand by helplessly when Captain Don Pedro and his men hoarded. 
The Captain's plight was doubly painful at that moment for his wife was in 
child-birth in his cabin. 

In fact the arrival of the pirates was heralded by the wail of the new horn. 
Don Pedro, demanding to know the source of the cries, was visibly affected 
when told. He straightway asked that the Captain's new daughter be given 
the name "Mary", and when this was agreed to, ordered his men off the Wolf. 

Howeve-r, he returned agi 
bracelet, a kngth of fitir 
other gift items from his loot. 

Don Pedro kepi in touch with Mary through the years, and when he came 
to retire after what was reputed a fruitful cares-!-, lie decided to build a home 
near Haniiiker, importing ships" rsrp>:iiiir«fi for the tusk. Mary married at 
eighteen, Willi a family of four sons and a daughter, hari recently left a wid- 
ow. And Don Pedro sent for her as a housekeeper. In due time he died, and, 
according to legend, lies buried under the hearth stone in his house, which 
he left Mary and in which she lived until she wos ninety- four. Also, according 
to rumor Don Pedro was stabbed to death by those seeking the gotd he had 
brought with him, and only Marv knew the secret of its hiding place. Thai 
she guards; at least, by a wealth of stories, she has from Lime to time appeared 

Mew Hampshire does not i te it also bad one 

of the major historical mysteries of the east in Paltec 's Caves, now known as 
Mystery Hill, near North Salem. 

Does this crumbling range of rocky walls represent tile remains of a Phoe- 
nician-Carthaginian settlement? In 335 B.C. Aristotle in his list of one bun- 

seas land which the Phoem, iai ' r I because of trade. His de- 

took ship and hi 
and then ran into such strom 
trig him ashore on one of th 
game. As for the foreigners 
crawl out of the pounding 
thrown bark again. 

However, at that particuh 


t th. 

asl?d aSujiK K.tijflaiid and SeutlamS, 
,» 5 it ship Nidi noMacsd !.eW.\ dtiv- 
d Faeroes. Wrecked ships were fair 
belli. i[ thi-y **-«rr hiupid < s n'«igh to 
eked on the head and 

is knights ar 

Uut« «!" 



e that 

f My* 

y Hill. Though unfor 

k looting Prinee Henry am 
survivors. Which was an ex 
luck for all concerned. Prince Henry was trying to build a na 
island holdings, and in Nicealo tie frHHifJ the commander he 
looking for. So pleased was Niccolo with the profits of such 
that he wrote home and urged his kc-iher Antonio to join hirr 

But there was one idea wheh had !<«* fsauniitert the Prinee. Years earl 
one of his fisherman subjects with a boatload of his fellows hari been bio' 
far off course and ended on the beaches of an unknown western count: 
There he had been well treated, but upon voyaging farther south with the t 
lives, he and his friends had beer. i'.:< ;ffi u.-.-j by a new tribe who were can 
hals. The fisherman purchased bis life hy showing them bow to weave fi 
nets, and because of his knowledge he became a tribal treasure, several tin 
wrest from one set of captors to the nest, always to the south. After .ho: 
weary years he managed to work his way north and to his original landf; 
There he built a boat and finally regained his homeland. 


'■mined" constantly ft 

sight :: iniejiif ni hundred years ago. litt 

mlatinn. It has 
Megalithie stonework cif Europe and the 

altar in proper proportions for human sacrifice, with speaking tube arrange- 
ment through which voice* may be eerily projected. 

Not only the Phoenicians are pven wik tor some of the features nearby. 
There are a number of structures. *hi,:h resemble very closely the beehive 
dwellings of the Celi Dei, the Celtic Irish Christians who fled first to the 
Orkneys, then to Icelandand even to Greenland, always in fear of the Vikings. 
They had reached Iceland in 874, before the first Viking settlement there. 
And when the first long ship nosed into hark.; at Greenland in $86, the men 
..mi Ivwil fmjfid rcc-esitiv absjndiisw-H Mi Dei d*t-lhn« ceils. [M !.htv cufise t... 
the American erajtfrtant, dKevur the toriff abandoned settlement of stone 
walls at North Salem, and settle there awhile in uneasy peace? 

Massachusetts also has such a mystery. The Sinclair Rock is indeed most 
provocative. One can find it at Westford where it may have existed since 
about 1400. But the tale begins in the Orkneys at the court of Prince Henry 
Sinclair of Rosslyn, Earl of Orkney, and Ciathness, Lord of Lhe Faeroes. And 
in those days, I-390, th* Faetoes were less than hospitable, as we discovered 
by Niccolo Zeno of Venice. 

Inspired by the same wanderlust which sent Marco Polo east, young Niccolo 


Prince Henry was excited about the land oversess, But, though Niccolo 
was fired by his enthusiasm, their fisherman guide died before they could plan 
to embark.' Determined, Prince Henry sent hU lien seuuiisig ship, commanded 
by Niccolo, which made a landing ii Greenland and returned safely. However 
Niccolo came home ailing and died within the year. 

It was not Antonio who look his brother's place in the proposed expedi- 
tion. In the summer of 1395, Prince Henry himself with a force of his guard, 
set out to the west. They made several landfalls of which Antonio kept a rec- 
ord Then they lost one ship and Prince Henry decided to remain for a while, 
sending back half of his men with Antonio. The return voyage was made in 
safety and Antonio returned to Venice. His account was kept in his family 
and finally published in 1558, 

But what happened to Prinee Henry? We know that he was again in the 
Orkneys for his death there in 1404 is a matter of history. 

So the Sinclair Rock. Marks supposed ot be of Indian origin were later 
definitely found to be the outline of a fourteenth century sword. This known, 
the rock was cleaned-to discover on it the outline of a six foot knight in ar- 
mor, not only enui;efd with tb'< * weird n, (jitesn'on, hut also with a shield hear- 
ing the heraldic insignia of the Sinclairs. 

Since one of the landfalls described by Antonio has been indentified with 
s point in Novs Scotia, h«! rise Prince pefhsp? Witt 3 ship, nos?d southward 

along the coast before he started home? Is one of hie knights buried some- 
where near the rock so unmistakably marked? 

Though no knight walks here lo regret his long exile, there is a ehost very 
much at home in the Huntington. House at Hadley. This dwelling was built ill 
1752, hut its proud owner did not enjoy it for long. On September 8, 1755, 
he was killed in an Indian ambush. A fried Jiv Indian returned his sword lo his 
wife, traditionally passing it through one of the windows of a lower room. 
Since that day someone seems to sleep in the fourposlercd bed beneath the 

■. &JE 

e bed from 

•shows the i 


of a light body. There are foowteo* heard ending to the attic. Children ai 
often visited in their rooms. A friendly ghost, 

Cohasset seemingly has a ghost who resents ehange and would make it 
known. The Ships 1 Chandlery, built in the late Seventeenth century by the 
Bales family, was later the property of John Rates who alto o ( wned a fishing 
fleet and was a most substantial citizen. But when the old building was moved 
from the water front in I "57 to bee o me a museum, the trouble began. Heavy 
footsteps were heard, doors opened and closed. It would seem that lohn 
Bates, is not at all satisfied, if the disturber of the peace is John, with the 

Rhode Island may have ghosts, but it also gives earth room to one of the 
most talked of of all American mysteries, the Newport Tower, Though it is 
claimed that this was built in the seventeen!!! iXFMofy as a mill, several of the 
premises on which this claim rests have since been proven false. Such as the 
Plowden Paper granting the land lo the Plowdens in 1632, quite a while before 
the tower was suppor-irdly built, and yet making mention of it. 

So we ran return lo 112! when the Pope appointed Bishop Eric Gynupsson 
to the See of Greenland and Vineland, the recently discovered laud to the 
. Bishop fiy!i«|j:iS"jR > sppohilmei't. records exist to this day 




■ if! V'hl 

deventh century, Iteid the Severe, king of thai 
lfltl.1, look a fleet of ships to cross the Ajlanlif. The fetorfls thereafter are ob- 
scure. That Harald was moved to make such an expedition at all argued he 
had good cause. And there is speculation thai he did establish A trading post 
colony, which he preferred, as many others have done, So keep a secret. 

But what has Ibnld'e possible colony and the Bishop got to do with a 
lower on Rhode Island? Just this-that the tower itself so follows the pattern 
of Christian churches of Scandanavia of that period that if it stood anywhere 
else it would be instantly hailed as such. Also, the windows in it are so set that 
they can be used for signalling and lookout lo the sea, not to the land-a 
watch tower for a port. 

So do we have the oldest church on this soil in Rhode Island? Aerial photo- 
graphs recently taken disclose odd lines under the turf, perhaps further explo- 
ration might prove the truth one way or another. 

New York .Slale and Gtv seems to favor Revolutionary ghosts. There are 
iht: "sit.-" on.-, ^ the headless soidu-s who is said io 5j»p;ar out of a rw:k 
crevice at midnight on Watch Hill in Yorklown Heights. And the pitiful ones 
t the terrible massacre of Cherry Valley with sounds of shots, 

and a 

iliiij] ii 

!r. ! %v> Yurfc Cih is the famed Moms-Jutiisl K^„r, »hich is aj>»er- 
ently well occupied by a shade. Built in 1765 by Lt-Coloncl Roger Morris, it 
passed into other haod's in I Tlti. the Colonel, a Tory, withdrawing to England 
at the close of the war. In the interim it had successively served as headquar- 
ters for both General Washington and Sir Henry Clinton,' 

Madam Jumcl herself was ,i figure out of gothic romance. Bom in the slums 
of Providence, her beauty and determination brought her a husband, Captain 
de la Criox, and a short visil lo France, Having shed the husband during her 
travels, she returned to her native land and Steven Jumel, a refugee from the 
slave rising in Santo Domingo, where he had been a planter. However, Jumel 
adapted well to the change and made a fortune in his new homeland as a wine 

Eliza, his mistress, played the finest role of her checkered career in 1800. 
Posing as being on her death bed, she persuaded Jumel to marry her. Her re- 

But her past closed the doors she wanted to open and she returned to a lonely 
life at the manor. After a questioned death of her husband, she increased his 

iised the first four lsauea o 

mft.r 1889. "Rock God" by Harlan 
er" by Wylly Folk St. John; others. 
nr» 1870i "Lconal" by Alan CaUI 

■oat "Shadow 
"The Little 

fortune by shrewd dea 
and he was in hfe seven 
time vice-president, he 

, enough to buy herself, when she was fifty-eight 
, Aaron Burr for a new mate. Though he was one 
s now thoroughly discredited, and their marriage 

Though Madam Jumel surrounded herself with the children of her sisters, 
her W.csinesss was legend, she was nwi resin' cd hv ihf socii-si shs craved. 

And, according to report, she has not left the house wherein she lived for so 
long. One recent story has her scolding children, brought as a class lo view the 
house, for their noisy btdisvjos . 

The Jumel Manor is not the only New York house to he favored by Aaron 
Burr, though he sseret= %o preicr this sscond dwidliriE fnr his ghostly visits 
more than the first. At I jndenwald near KinderhcH,k, in the Washington Irving 
country, he has been seen, wearing a mulberry vi-ltfS s-o;ii and a ruffled shirl. 
He shares this estate with a second and perhaps a third ghost. One of these 
was b i.vriiie? presidd! i, an ufficc Bur: reached 'mi but tievr'i achieved. 

Built in 1797 by Judge William Peter Van Ness whose son William was 
Burr's second in the lalal duel v.i!.h Ates.ii;id<:i KatniUoti, l.indenwald is sup- 
po-^ii to K*vf sheltered Burr isecrrliriv dttritis the linji: hr. was hein| htintcil 
for what was deemed murder. 

Ijslcr the house was bought and remodeled hv Martin Van Buren, eighth 
President, when his term of office was completed. It was during the Utter 
tint*; that "Aunt Harah" presided in lb- kitchen. So famed w»s she foe he; 
riancekts that she was an ndd.-.i! aitraeiiiifi ioi cueHs. (inly ir seem* dipt she 
intended to continue to rule the kitchen, even after the scent of her 
ironkifig, to be stuffed how sml aeaitf today. ti>t.ifjf* IW.r- u|>'i» and .■■his; 
without reason, then- is s viuhn hewd playing, arid ftrt'Utep* :>u;snd. Burr, the 
President, Aunt Sarah -all are S'ljmo'.f A. to Aii'l inek'- I iridenwald their home. 

In Albany stands Cherry Hill on South Pearl Street. On May 7th, 1K27 this 
was the site of a murder which t**ms Hi he redacted in part through the years 
John Whipple, manager for the Van Rensse.i art* who owned the properly, was 
shot through the window by his wife's lover. Jrssp ::;«;;?. as he confered with 
Ids employer over accounts. Nowdays, someone unseen paces the terrace- 
Sfrat!£ awaithsg ids victim? Who knows? 

Fort Ontario, Oswego, has two ghosts by report. One : a tombstone can be 
seen in the military cemetary. George Fyk*s, in British uniform of Revolution- 
ary times, was known to appear once to every new garrison at the fort, the 
reason for this strange welcome lost in time. While sentries walking at number 
two post there in the past have found themselves awesomely accompanied by 
a light shining over their heads, though e<plauation for this manifestation has 


- vo it. 

addition, a ghost train whirl 
long the Harlem division of the New York Central. It is in two parts, both 
drawn by old fashioned wide smoke-stacked engines of Ihe 19lh century, both 
are draped in black. Though no engineer nor fireman appears, the first section 
carries passengers of a sort. Mounted on one of several flat rare a band of skel- 
etons play their instruments. The second section carried a draped coffin moun- 
ted on a single faltcar. As the train approaches a dark carpet seems to unroll 
before it, and clocks along the way stop from five to eight minutes. The date is 
significant for it was just at this time of year that Ijncoln's funeral train 
moved westward hearing the martyr president to his last home. Is Lincoln's 
ttisft) eve; to be engaged in their n:i.>urnft:i journey.' 

I'kis is hot ) rrtvslerv itnrns-therir arc many 

more. Research will njiiMr- ihf w. iu jd be ghost hunter to make out a well 
haunted itinerary. Such books as the following are eseeljenl sources: 


Doubleday I%1 

Twayne 1958 
Holier, Hans- YANKEE CHOSTS 

Bobbs-Merrill 1%6 

Hill and Wang l%y 

World Publishing 1 yf,7 

People" by Robert E. Howard, Pauline Smith) Wade 
WelltniU! Ron Goulart) others, 

iHoren 19T0: "I, Vamplrel" by Proniinl/Wallmailj "Con- 
vert" by S. M. Clawson; condualon of "Let There be 
Magic" by Keavenyi poetry by Robert E. Howard ( morel 
You can have any one of these Issues for BO eenta, minimum 

"Men Say You Move Through Life Like One of the fates, Dark Agnes. 

Unmoved, Unchangeable, Potent With Tragedy and Doom, and 

That the Men Who Ride With You Do Not Live Long " 

by Robert E. Howard and Gerald W. Page 


Ahead of me in the dark alloy, steel dashed and a man tried oul aa men 
cry only when death- a trio ken. Around a comer of the winding way three 
mantled ahapes aun-i fit luting, blindly, as men run in panic and terror. I drew 
back against the wall to 1ft them go past, and two crowded by me without 
even seeing me, breathing in hysterica) gasps; hul the third, running with hie 
chin on hie shoulder, blundered full against me. 

He shrieked like a damned soul, and evidently deeming himself attacked, 
grappled me wildly, tearing at me with his tenth like a mad dog. With a curse I 
broke his grasp and flung htm Iran me against the wall, but the violence of 
my exertion caused sty iooc to slip in ■/. puiMk mi iht skiues, and I stumbled 

a phantom out of" the deeper darkness. The light of a distanl 
gleamed dully on his morion and the sword lifted above my head. I barely 
hs.4 haw; Uj ;Hi»j the sSfokc; Miiiikh fiew aa out str.d m*:t, and I returned the 
stroke with J tliniat of such violence that my point drove through teeth and 
neck and rang against the lining ttf his st*;>:! head-pieee. 

Who my attacker* were I knew not, hut there was no time for parley or ex- 
planation. Dim figures were upon me in the semi-darkness and hlades whick- 
ered about my head. A .tlrok~ ciajigsd full upon my morion filled my 
eyes with sparka of fire, and abandoning lit' point in my extremity I hewed 
right and left and heard men grunt and eurw as 1115 sword s edg* g<1Eih#d tllEJIX 
Then, as I stepped hack to avoid a swiping eut, my foot caught in the cloak of 
the man I had killed, and I fell aprawling over the corpse. 

There w* a Csfti' t:.rv uf ttiuronli, ami one ,™-s«£ forward, >.wOi'd liilf-d- 
biit ere he could strike or I could lift my hlade above my head, a quick step 
sounded behind me, a dim figure loomed in the uncertain light, and the down- 
ward aweeping hlade rang on a award in mid-air. 

"Dog!" quoth the stranger with curious accent. "Will you strike a fallen 

The other roared and cut at him madly, hut by thai time 1 waa on my feel 
again, and as the others ;>rese«i> in, I met them with point and edge, thrusting 
and alaahing like a demon, for I was wild with fury at having been in such a 
plight aa the stranger rescued me from. A side-lung glance showed me the lat- 
ter driving his sword through the body of the man who opposed him, and at 
this, and aa I pressed them, drawing blood *:i eavh si.roke. the rogues gave way 
and fled fleetly down the alley. 

I turned then to my unknown friend, and saw a lithe, compactly-miilt man 
but little taller than myself. The glare of the distant cresset fell dimly upon 
him, and 1 saw that he was e|nd in fine Cordovan hoots and velvet doublet, 
beneath which I glimpsed 3 glint of rn«b~fitait. A tine crimson cloak was 
flung over his shoulder a li-iilln'red cisp <m his "head, ami licneath this his eyes, 
colct and l)(iM. daiicrt) r<??.t!«s»ly His fe;>-. was- clears-stavef! and brown, ssilh 
high cheek bones and thin lips, and there wet!: acarn that hinted of an adven- 
turous career. He bore himself with something of a swagger, and his every 

action betokened si ra 


! -,.,,:&« 

I thank you, my friend," ipoth I. "Weil for me Sh*t vol) came at the mo- 
ment which vou did." 

"Zounds!" cried he. "Think naught of it. Twas mi more than I'd have 
done for any man-but, Saint Andrew! You're .1 woman!" 

There being no reply to that, I cleaned my hlade and sheathed it, while he 
gaped at me open-mouthed. 

"Agnes de U Fere!" he said slowly, at length "It can he 110 other I have 
heard of you, even in Scotland. Your hand, girl! I have yearned to meet you. 
Nor is it an unworthy thing even for Dark Agnes to shake the hand of John 

(grasped his hand, though in sooth, I had never heard of him, feeling steely 
thews in his fingers and a cjuick nervous grip that I old me of a passionate, hair 
trigger nature. 

"Who were these topics who soiieiit yooT life?" he asked. 

"I have many enemies," I answered, "hul I think these were mere skulking 
rosiiei, f-'.sbiK'ft and >nsirii«r<:es. They ivefo |>tii-suir.i; three :»•::'. and i th:rJi. 
tx\> (1 to i"jt my liir.ijit to hush my tongue." 

"Likelv enough," quoth he. *T saw three men in black mantle., flee out of 
the alley mouth as ihough Satan were at their heels, which aroused my curio- 
sity, so I came to see what was forward, especially as 1 heard the rattle of 
steel. Saint Andrew 1 Mess said your *%ord- j.'!a.> was like, summer lightning, and 
it is even as they said! Rut let us see if She rouses have indeed fled or are 
iiierciy hifkiiij beyond thai i.'ft.oi. I o slab '■',• in sin- fcaek an we liqiiirt." 

He stepped cautiously around the crook and swore under his breath. 

'■They are gone, in sooth, but I see .something lying in the alley. I think it 
is a dead man." 

Then I rememberer! the cry 1 heard, and I joined him. A few moment, la- 
ter we were bending over two forms that lay sprawled in the mud of the alley. 
One was a small man, mantled like the three who had fled, but with a deep 
gash in his breast that had let out his life. Hut as I spoke to Stuart oil the mat- 
ter, he swore suddenly. He had turned the other man on his back, and was 
staring at him in suprise. 

"This man has been dead for hunts," quoth he. "Morover he dieil tint by 
sword or pistol. Look! See his features how they are swollen and purple* It is 
the mark of the gallows! And he is clad still in the gibbet-shirt. By Saint And- 
rew, Agnes, do you know who this is?" And when 1 shook my head, "It is 
Costranno, the Italian sorcerer, who was hanged at dawn this morning on the 
gibbet outside the walls, for practicing the black arts. He it was who poisoned 
the son of the Duke of Tours and caused the hlamc to be laid upon an inno- 
cent man, Bui Francoise de Brelagny, suspecting the truth, trapped him into 
s eossiesEion to her, and laid the facia before the authorities." 

"I heard something of this matter," uiioth I. "But 1 have been in Oiartret 
only a matter of a week." 

"It is Costranno, well enough," Raid Stuart, shaking his head. "Hie features 

are so distorted I would not have known him, nave lhat (he middle finger of his 
left hand is missing. And this other is Jacques Pelligny, his pupil in the black 
arts. Sentence of death was passed on him, likewise, hut lie had fled and could 
not be found. Welt, his asrl did MOl savf him from a footpad's sword. Costran- 
no's followers have cut him down from the gibbet-but why should they have 
brought the body hack into the city?" 

"There is something in Pelligny 's hand," I said, prying the dead fingers a- 
part. It was as if, even in death, they gripped what thev held. It was a frag- 
ment of gold chain, and fastened lo it a most curious red jewel lhat gleamed 
in the darkness like an angry eye. 

"Saint Andrew!" muttered Stuart. "A rare stone, i 'faith hark 1 " he started 
to hie feet. "The watch' We must not be found by these corpses'" 

Far down the alley 1 saw the glow of moving lanthorns and heard the tramp 
of mailed feet. As I scrambled up, the jewel and r.hain slipped from my fingers 
-it was almost as if they were snatched from my hand-and fell full on the 
breast of the dead sorcerer. I did not wish its Iskf the time to retrieve it, so 1 
hurried up the alley after Stuart, and glancing hack, I saw the jewel glittering 

Emerging from the alley into a narrow winding street, scarcely better light- 
ed, we hurried along it until we came lo an inn, and entered it. Then, seating 
ourselves at a table somewhat apart from she is t tars who wrangled and cast 
dice on the wine-stained boards, we called for wine and the host brought us 
two great jacks. 

"To our better acquaintance," quoth John Stuart, lifting his tankard. "By 
■Saint Andrew, now that I see you in the light, I admire you the more. You are 
a fine, tall woman, but even in morion, doublet, truilk-kisn and boots, none 
could mistake you for a man. Well are you called dark Agnts! For all your red 
hair and fair skin there is something strange and dark about you. Men say you 
move through life like one of the Fates, unmoved, ,.»> changeable, potent with 

straw. But who is this?" 

The door had opened and a gust of cold wind made the candles flicker, and 
sent a shiver over the men on the settles, A tall man entered, closing the door 
behind him. He was wrapped in a wide black mantle, and when he raised his 
head and his glance roved over the tavern, a silence fell suddenly. That face 
was strange and unnatural in appearance, being so dark in hue that it was al- 
most black. His eyes were strange, murky and staring. I saw several topers 
cross themselves as they met his gaze, and then he seated himself at a table in 
a corner furthest from the candles, and drew his mantle closer about him, 
though the night was warm. He took the tankard proffered him by an appre- 
hensive slattern and bent his head over it, so his face was no longer visible 
under his slouch hat, and the hum of the tavern began again, though somewhat 

"Blood on that mantle," said John Stuart. "If that man be not a cutthroat, 
then I am much befooled, Ho6t, another bottle! " 

"You are the first Scotsman 1 ever met," said 1, "though I have had deal- 
ings with Englishmen," 

"A curse on the breed!" he cried. "The devil take them all into his keep- 
ing! And a curse on my enemies who exiled me from Scotland." 

"You are an exile!" I asked. 

"Aye! With scant gold in my sporran. But fortune ever favors the brave." 
and he laid hand on the hilt at his hip. 

But I was watching the stranger in the corner, and Stuart turned to stare at 
him. The man had lifted his hand and crooked a finger at the fat host, and that 
rogue drew nigh, wiping his hands on his leathern apron and uneasy in his ex- 
pression. There was something about the black mantled stranger that repelled 

mble and mine host shook his 


Robert E. Howard (1906-I9:t(>) wrote such a successful body of adventure 
fantasy that it frequently obscures the fact that he wrote in many fields, 
equally well. He was the author of many horror, detective, sports, historical, 
and exotic adventure stories as well as Westerns, serious and humorous. He 
wrote vivid, ai-tion- filled tales about characters as memorable and larger-than- 
life as his fight scenes. He left many stories incomplete at his death: stories he 
had not finished and stories he had abandoned because the market for them 
had ceased to exist. Some years ago Glen Lord, literary executor for the 
Howard estate, unearthed many of these manuscripts as well as several fin- 
ished ones. Since that time several of the incomplete yarns have been com- 
pleted by various writers. COVEN 13 takes pride in presenting one of these 
stories now-a story featuring Agnes de La Eere, heroine of a handful of 
Howard's hislttrknl adventure yarns- in her first fantasy adventure. 


gedy and doom, and that the men who ride with you do not 
■ ; girl, why did you don breeks and take the road of men?" 
' ihook my head, unable lo say mysel f, but as Ik urged it! 

thing of myself, I said, "My 
the village of I,a Fere, in ]V 
de Chastillon and a peasant 
ies until he grew too old tc 
most he would have killed 
last he sought to marry me 

Agnes de Qiastillon, and I was born in 
ormandy. My father is the bastard son of the Due 
woman— a mercenary sol id er of the Free G-sin pass- 
march and fight. If 1 had not been tougher than 
ne with his heating before I was grown. When at 
to a man I hated, I killed that man, and fled from 

the village. One Etlienne Villiers befriended me, but also taught • 
helpless woman is fair prey to all men, and wher 
Hearned that I was as strong as most men, and quL 

"Later I fell in with Guiscard de Clisson, a leader of the Free Companies, 
who taught me the use of the sword before he was slain in an ambush I took 
naturally to the life of a man, and can drink, swear, march, fight and boast 
wilts the best of them. I have yet to meet my equal at sword play," 

Stuart scowled slightly as if my word did not please him overmuch, and he 
lifted his tankard, quaffed deeply, and said, "There be as good men in Scot- 
land as in France,_and there men say that John Stuart's blade is not made of 

"An Italian," muttered Stuart, "I know that jabber anywhere." 

But the stranger shifted into French and as he spoke, haltingly, his words 
grew plainer, his voice fuller. 

"Francoise. de Bretagny," quoth he, and repeated the name several limes. 
"'Where is the house of Francoise de Bretagny? 

The inn-keeper began giving him difsctitim 
should that ill-visaged Italian rogue desire to gs 
From what I hear," I answered cynically, ' 
any man asking for her house." 

■e always told about beautiful w 

t muttered: "Why 
sise de Bretagny?" 
?at surprise to hear 

wred Siuart, lifting his 

said to he the mistress of the Duke of Orlea 

tankard. "Bee. 
not mean that she- 
He froue suddenly, (ankard to lip, staring, and 1 saw an expression of sur- 
prise pass over his brown, scarred face. At that moment the Italian had risen, 
and drawing his wide mantle about him, made for the door. 
^ "Stop him!" roared Stuart, leaping to his feet, and dragging out his sword. 
"Stop that rogue!" 

But at lhat instant a band of soldiers in morions and breastplates came 
shouldering in, and the Italian glided out past them and shut the door behind 

him. Stuart started forward with a curse, to halt as the soldiers barred the way. 
Striding into the center of the Uvern, and roving a stern glance over all the 
cringing occupants, the captain, a tall man in a gleaming breastplate, said loud- 
ly: "Agnes de La Fere, I arrest you for the murder of Jacques Pelligny!" 

"Whal do you mean, Tristan?" I exclaimed angrily, springing up. "I did 
not kill Pelligny!" 

"This woman bbw you leave the alley where the man was slain," answer- 
ed he, indicating a tall, fair wench in fealhera and gauds who cowered in the 
grasp of a burly man-at-arms and would not meet my gaze. I knew her well, a 
courtesan whom I had befriended, and whom 1 would not have expected to 
give false testimony against me. 

"Then she must have seen me too," quoth John Stuart, "for 1 was with 
Agnes. If you arrest her you must arrest me too, and by Saint Andrew, my 
sword will have some thing to say about that. " 

"I have naught to do with you," answered Tristan, "My business is with 
this woman." 

"Man, you are a fool." cried Stuart gustily. "She did not kill Pelligny. And 
what if she did? Was not the rogue under sentence of death?" 

"He was meat for the hangman, not the private citizen," answered Tristan. 

"Listen," said Sluart. "He was slain hy footpads, who then attacked Agnes 

who chanced to be traversing the alley at the time. I came to her aid, and we 

dew two of the rogues. Did you not find their bodies, with masks to their 

heads to prove their trades?" 

"We saw no such thing," answered Tristan. "Nor were you seen there- 
abouts, so your testimony is without value. This woman here saw Agnes dc 
U Fere pursue Pelligny into the alley and there stab him. So 1 am forced to 
take her to the prison." 

"1 know well why you wish to arrest me, Tristan," I said coldly, approach- 
ing him with an easy tread. "I had not been in Oiartres a day before you 
tough! to make me your mistress. Now you take this revenge upon me. Fool! 
1 am mistress only to Death ! " 

"Enough of this idle talk," ordered Tristan curly. "Seize her, man!" It was 
his last command on earth, for my sword was through him before he could 
lift his hand. The guard closed in on me with a yell, and as I thrust and par- 
ried, John Stuart sprang to my side and in an instant the inn was a madhouse, 
with stamping boots, clanging blades and the curses and yells of slaughter. 
Then we broke through, leaving the floor strewn with corpses, and gained the 
street. As we broke through the door I saw the wench they brought to testify 
against me cowering behind an overturned settle and I grapsed her thick yel- 
low locks and dragged her with me into the street 

"Down that alley," gasped John Stuart. "Other guardsmen will be here a- 
non. Saint Andrew, Agnes, will you burden yourself with that big hussy? We 
must take to our heels! " 

"1 have a score to settle with her," I gritted, for all my hot blood was 
roused. 1 hauled her along with us until we made a turn in the alley and halt- 
ed for breath. 

"Watch the street," I bade him, and then turning to the cowering wench.l 
said in calm fury: "Margot, if an open enemy deserves a thrust of steel, what 
(ate does a traitress deserve? Not four days agone i saved you from a beating 
al the hands of a drunken soldier, and gave you money because your tears 
touched my foolish compassion. By Saint Trignan, 1 have a mind to cut the 
head from your fair shoulders! " 

"Oh, Agnes," she sobbed, falling to her knees, and clasping my legs. "Have 

"111 spare your worthless life," 1 said angrily, beginning to unsling my 
sword belt. "But I mean to turn up your petticoats and whip you as no bead- 
le ever did." 

"Nay, Agnes! " she wailed. "First hear me! I did not lie! It is true that I 
saw you and the Scotsman coming from the alley with naked swords in your 
hands. But the walch said merely that three bodies were lying in the alley, 
and two were masked, showing they were thieves. Tristan said whoever slew 
them did a good night's work, and asked me if I had seen any coming from 
the alley. So 1 thought no harm, and replied that I saw you and the Scotsman 
John Sluart. But when I spoke your name, he smiled and told his men that he 
had his reasons for desiring to get Agnes de La Fere in a dungeon, helpless 
and unarmed, and bade them do as he told them. So he told me that my testi- 
mony about you would be accepted, but the rest, about John Stuart, and the 
two thieves he would not accept. And he threatened me so terribly that I 
dared not defy him. " 

"The foul dog," I muttered. "Well, there is a new captain of the watch in 
hell tonight. " 

"Bui you said Hu-ee bodies," broke in John Sluart. "Were there not four? 
Pelligny, two thieves, and the body of Costranno? 

She shook her head. 

"I saw the bodies. There were but three. Pelligny lay deep in the alley, 
fully clad, the other two around the crook, and the larger was naked." 

"Eh?" ejaculated Stuart, "By Heaven, that Italian! 1 have but now remem. 
btred! on, to the house of Francoise de Brelagny!" 
"Why there?" 1 demanded. 

"When the Italian in the inn drew his cloak about him to depart," an- 
swered Stuart, "1 glimpsed on his breast a fragment of golden chain and a 
great red jewel - T believe the very jewel Pelligny grasped in his hand when 
we found him. I believe that man is a friend of Costranno's, a magician come 
to take vengeance on Franeoise dc Brelagny! Come!" 

He set impetuously off up the alley, and I followed him, while the girl 
Margot scurried away in another direction, evidently glad to get off with a 
whole skin, 

Stuart led the way, grimly silent, and I followed after him, somewhat per- 
plexed by his silence and the silence of Ihe street. For strangely silent were 
the dark, twisting streets, silent even for night Involuntarily, 1 shuddered, 
though whether at the silence or the cold, I could not say. We encountered no 
one, not even soldiers, on our way to the home of Francoise de Brelagny. 
It was not far to her home from the tavem where we fled the watch, 
though the tavern lay huddled among the squalor of the town's least reput- 
able quarter and the home of Francoise de Brelagny, as befitted so magnifi- 
cent a structure, was in a neighborhood suitable to the wealthiest noble- 
woman. No lights shown in the windows as we approached, and indeed none 
of the neighbor houses were lit at this time of night. We paused, John Stuart 
and I, without the courtyard gate and strained our ears, but the silence beat 
on us like the darkness, oppressive and threatening. 

It was John Stuart who reached forward and pushed the gate, which open- 
ed noiselessly a I his touch. 

"Ah!" said he a moment later. "The lock's been broken and within the 
half hour, 111 wager." 

"Inside, then" I replied, barely able to keep my voice to a whisper. "Even 
now we may be too lale!" 

"Aye," Stuart said, shoving the gate open the rest of the way. 1 heard the 
rasp of steel against scabbard as he drew his sword, and ihe dark shadow that 
was John Stuart's form moved agilely through the gale and i followed after. 
Within the courtyard it was as still as it was without, but there were thicker 
shadows here, for around us grew trees and thick shrubbery, as still as dark 
statues in the breeze-calmed night. 

"Saint Andrew!" 1 heard John Sluart exclaim, and saw the dark form of 
his body bend and crouch to the ground, bending over something-or some- 
one, I moved lo his side and peered down. 

It was at that moment that the moon chose to eome out, and 1 saw that we 
were bending over the corpse of a man, who, by his dress and his presence in 
the courtyard, I took to be a servant of Francoise de Bretagny. 
"Does he live? " 1 asked. 

"Nay," replied John Sluart, "Strangled, by the look of his face and the 
marks on his throat -strange, thoBe marks. There's something about them out 
of the ordinary. Have you flint and steel, lass?" 

For answer, I drew flint and steel from the pouch at my waist and struck 
sharply. Briefly a spark flared, bathing the bloated face of the corpse in pale 
yellow light. Briefly, hut long enough to show us what we saw. I gasped at the 
sight of the marks on the dead man's throat. 

"By all lhat the Saints hold sacred," John Stuart said. "Tib an enemy 
we're against lhat I would rather not be facing, Dark Agnes. For such is my 
thought. Mayhap ye'd best go back and find your way out of this cursed 

"What was it you saw, John Stuart?" 

"Have you not eyes of your own, lass?" 

"I saw-but I would hear it from your lips." 

"Then hear it. I saw the marks of a hand against the throat of this corpse, 
and the marks of that hand were missing a finger." 

"The hand of the dead sorcerer Costranno?" I said. "But how could lhat 
be? We saw him dead, the marks of the rope as plain upon his neck as the 
marks of the hand upon this poor man's neck." 

"That jewel-" John Stuart said. "Saint Andrew! A magician is out to a- 
venge Coslranno, but it is not a friend of his but Costranno himself. Necro- 
mancy is the only answer. That alleyway where you were altacked. 1 have 
heard that the stones paving that alley were taken from an ancient heathen 
temple that once stood in a grove outside ihe city. 

"It leaves me cold to think on it, but if but a tenth the tales related about 
CoBtranno be true, then he's magician enough to accomplish this and more. 
Mayhap his friends were not bearing him to his own house, but lo that alley 
with its heathen temple's stones. Aye, mayhap they cul him from the gallows 
and were bringing him there. Likely Pelligny had even spoke the incantation 

to bring the dead to life when those footpads interrupted before he could 
place the jewel-ihe last step in the ritual. And that was accomplished when 
the jewel fell from your fingers on to the breast of the corpse." 

"The holy saints!" I cried. "Then, I am a part of this. But even so, ! swear 
that jewel slipped not from my fingers, but was yanked by something; some 

"By something from beyond the grave," Stuart said grimly, as he rose. 
"Now you go back and find your way to the waterfront and flee this city, for 
the watch will want your throat for a gibbet noose if you remain in Chartres." 

"I cannot flee, for whatever snatched that jewel from my hands has made 
me an accomplice to necromancy and blasphemy," I said, resenting also the 
implication that I should flee from danger while John Stuart stayed to face it 
"Two against one will not be too great odds when the one is a magician re- 
turned from the grave." 

John Stuart paused, and 1 half expected argument. But instead he said, 
"There's little time then," he said. "Costranno, once back from the grave, 
must have stripped the clothes from the third corpse and set out straightway 
to find Francoise de Bretagny. We are lucky he chose the tavern we were in to 
ask directions, though he must have known this house from the stories I have 

"But not the quarter of the city he was in," I said. "It was a quarter popu- 
lous with thieves and cutthroats, but they had no truck with Costranno, nor 
he with them. Let us hurry. Even now we may be too late! " 

We found the door to the house open like the courtyard gate. I found can- 
dles and lit one. We were in. a large parlor, splendidly furnished in a way that 
bespoke a householder of great wealth. But there was no time to note the 
splendor of the room and its hangings. 

'This way," John Stuart said. He headed for the stairs and I followed after 

We reached the top of the stairs, where the candle cast flickering red light 
among the black shadows of a narrow hallway. For but a second John Stuart 
paused, then pointed and said, "That door!" 

At the end of the hall there was an open door. He rushed toward it and I 
followed after it, almost causing the candle to flicker out in my haste. 

The room beyond the open door was a bedchamber, a lady's bedchamher, 
fully as lavish in its appointments as the parlor below. The bed was empty 
and the covers thrown into the floor. Furniture was overturned and a mirror 
broken, as if some thrown object had struck it instead of the target it was 
meant for. There was no sign of Francoise de Bretagny, nor of Costranno. 

"What sorcery is this? Has he vanished into the air and taken her with him?" 
I said. "They couldn't have gotten past us." 

A noise came from the darkness at my side, so sudden and unexpected, 
that 1 almost dropped the candle as I whirled to face the source of the sound. 
I held the candle high to bathe a dark corner with light, and there in the cor- 
ner was a man, cowering and gibbering, as a frightened child might gibber. 

The man drew back against the wall as John Stuart approached him. The 
servant uttered sounds, but they were meaningless sounds, such as are not 
I pleasant to hear from the lips of a living man. I felt a shudder pass involun- 

tarily up my spine and saw that even John Stuart was slightly unnerved by 
this, for as he turned back to face me the light from the candle was sufficient 
to show the strain upon his face. 

"His mind is gone," Stuart said. He stood for a moment, those piercing 
eyes of his sweeping the room in a way that almost convinced me those sha- 
dows could conceal naught from him. "Aye," he said suddenly. "It's all so 
plain to me now. Obviously Francoise de Bretagny saw the need for protec- 
tion, because both the servants we have seen were dressed and obviously set to 
guard her through the night But the magnitude of the danger that beset her 
she did not begin to guess, else she would have fled the city -and indeed- all of 
France. For now one of her servant-guards lies dead and the other's mind has 
fled him at the sight of a dead man carrying off hia mistress. And she has been 
taken— but who can say where?" 

"More than likely," I said, "it is too late now to save Francoise de Bretagny 
though we can avenge her murder. " 

"There may be time," John Stuart said*, "if we make haste!" He began 
moving around the room, peering here and there, tapping the walls, feeling 
along the woodwork and behind hangings. "My guess is that Costranno has 
more sinister plans for her than murder, else her corpse would be sprawled 
across that bed. It may even be that some further ritual is necessary to fully 
revive him from the dead and that he has marked Francoise de Bretagny for 
that foul ceremony. Ah! What is this?" 

His hand had reached behind a torn hanging and I could see that he moved 
something, though what it was he moved was hidden to me by the hanging. 
But as he moved it, a part of the wall moved out, revealing a passageway and 
beyond the passageway, a stair, leading down. 


'This is how our necromancer made his escape," John Stuart said. From 
near the door, the maddened servant increased his gibbering, more frightened 
now than before. "Aye!" said John Stuart. "Our friend knows about this 

He stepped through the opening and 1 followed after him, holding high 
the candle to cast its light before us. "It is likely Francoise de Bretagny knew 
naught of this passageway," John Stuart said. "It may be that the entire city 
of Chartres is combed with passageways known only to Costranno and a few 

"That is not a cheering thought," I said. "But IVe a feeling there is mote 
to it than I care for there to be." 

The stairs were stone, seemingly carved from solid rock, leading down far 
below the level of the street, far deeper I felt than any cellar or dungeon in 
the city would be expected to go. The stairs wound down into the earth until 
I thought they would lead to hell itself, and then, ahead and below, we saw ■ 
light coming through a doorway at the foot of the stairs. 

We paused momentarily upon the stairs and I strained my ears against the 
silence. For a moment it seemed deathly still, but then I thought a sound did 
come to me— the sound of a voice, perhaps, but too faint and muffled by dis- 
tance and thick stone walls for me to be certain it was not the growling of 

I snuffed out the candle I held and laid it carefully on the stairs. I was cer- 
tain that the thickness of the walls around us would hide the sound of a can- 
dle drooping from any human earn, but I was not so certain that the ears the 
sound should be hidden from were human. 

I drew my sword and followed John Stuart down the stain. 

We reached the bottom of the stairs and beyond the open door we saw a 
crypt, brightly lighted by torches set into brackets in the wall. I call it a crypt 
because there were caskets, or what appeared to be caskets, set into niches in 
the wall. But the writings and designs carved on these caskets and on the wall 
themselves, were not Christian, nor of any religion with which I am familiar. 
In the center of the crypt there was a dais of black marble and on the dais, 
naked and unconscious, but still breathing, lay Francoise de Bretagny. And a 
few feet away from the dais, Costranno himself knelt, straining to lift a seven- 
sided stone in the floor. As we rushed through the doorway he saw us and 
gave one fierce inhuman effort that dragged the stone out of the floor and to 
one aide, revealing a black, gaping hole. 

Costranno 's cloak was thrown off now, and his features, hidden to us in the 
tavern, were now revealed in the torch light The gibbet had done its work 
well. Bloated was the face of Costranno, his lips blacked with death and the 
marks and bite of the rope heavy upon his neck. He gave a great, incoherent 
cry as John Stuart moved toward him. Then the sorcerer fell back to the wall 
behind him and snatched a torch from its bracket His unearthly, garbled 
voice rose in a shout that might have been rage or a call to the blasphemous 
gods he worshipped, and he threw the torch at Stuart. 

The touch struck the brown stone flooring before John Stuart 's feet, with 
a shower of sparks and flames and a sudden billowing of black smoke. In- 
stantly Stuart's figure was hidden from my view, hut I could hear his voice, 
giving vent to his cage in a string of curses. The smoke was gone almost as sud- 
denly as it came and Stuart still stood, apparently unhurt. But when he moved 
to leap at Costranno, something seemed to hold him back, as if an invisible 
wall had formed. 

I spent no time in trying to fathom Costranno 's magic. Before the sorcerer 
could reach another torch, I was upon him. And as Stuart cursed and raved 
because he could not move to hurl himself and his sword point upon his foe, 
I pasaed my sword twice through the undead man's body without harming 

A horrible, angry cry came forth from Costranno'a mangled throat He. 
drew his sword, and only my mail shirt beneath my doublet saved me from 
his terrible thrusts. But even bo I was forced back, and the growling, snarling 
Costranno bore toward me, his sword slashing and beating at me with such 
terrific blows that I was hard put to parry. 

I knew fear at that moment-icy, nerve-shattering fear that seemed to grip 
my very soul, and rendered me so senseless that I fought by instinct and maw 
stregnthand without science or technique, save that of the moment. Costranno 
was in a rage and wanted my life and the life of John Stuart and of the naked, 
helpless girl who lay as intended sacrifice upon the black attar. 

1 did not realise his strategy until the heel of my left foot reached the edge 
of the opening in the floor behind me. Costranno had forced me back, hoping 
not to best me with the sword, but to hurtle me into the abyss. J knew noth- 
ing of what might be at the bottom of that pit, but somehow I knew that the 
kindest death that would befall one who toppled into it would be to have his 
body dashed to peices at its bottom. 1 felt, by whatever power I cannot say, 

i! (heft 

lething in that 

ing pan! 

which I Jjd II 
And that is what s< 

ed me. 

I hacked fiercly at ("lostranno, taunting more on strength than skill, s 
in that moment drove him hank far enough to give me the room I needed, i 
dove to one side, rolled and came to my feel behind him. I struck with all my 
jlregnth, and the edge of my blade eul deep into the flesh of Costranno's 
mangled neck, severing through hone and gristle as well as flesh, and then 
pulling free as the severed head flopped from the shoulder of lite corpsc-and 
into the gaping blackness of the hole into which he had tried lo push me. 

There was an unearthly cry of terror from the blackness beneath the feet 
of ]|i? sli II >i!srii.iin« turps*:, Co^ranm.'? hiradkss hi»Hy si<xsd for a iiir.ivx'iM ;;'. 
the edge of the pit and then on font movrai back, away from the edge. 

My fear bad become so agonising that I was almost mindless, but somehow 
1 saw what must he done and somehow brought myself to do it, despite the 
revulsion the thought of touching Coslranni) brought to me, I have fought 
minv limes and killed many men and seen many comrades die in battle. I 
h»vt carried :mn\ ;s corpse lo a shallow liiiUSefitio' grave wilh no sioiRpttn.:- 
linn about touching cold flesh. Hut the thought of touching a walking dead 


n the ■ 

>dd »■ 

ecssary that 1 touch it so that it Ci 

iclf to run up behind the shambling corpse and shove my hands hard 
■last ■•■'. lijrht.ii*^ co>rrs..-.H ihroaaii f»y 
iy and threw me back, numbly, to the floor. But even as I fell to the floor, 
w the headless corpse topple into the pit. 

For a moment there was a silence in the chamber aisd fiyMhi?? SUisri 
moved. Then, on the altar, francoise de Bretaguy stirred and made a sr. 
w!ii(riji.?r«i^ wind as i:<sn«t iou»rst-ss KlarU'd U> rdiirsi to her. John Stitsrt. 
now of the spell which had imprisoned him, rushed to mv side and rea( 
down to aid me to my feel. 

Sudden shame a( the womanly fear I had felt while fighting Costra 
Ihioded me. Flustered, I shook t.ff Ills hand and rose to my feet, urn 
but without help. "I'm all right," I said. "I can take care of myself. 

John Stuart laughed, but ther* »*•. oddH-. nothing '>■' contempt or mali 

e to meet-and my in his laugh, "You are more a woman than youll admit," he said. "And to 

your credit, Agnes de La Fere." 

"If you would aid a helpless woman," I said, with discomfort, "then see to 
Francoise de Bretagny. My guess is we will need such influence as she can give 
us to gain protection from the watch before we escape this city." 

"Aye," John Stuart said. "There is truth in what you say." He went to see 
to Francoise, and 1 stood, trying to conceal my nervousness, staring at the 
open pit in the floor. 

I went to the wall and took a torch from a bracket and went to the edge of 
the opening and knelt down. I held the torch out over the opening and peered 
down into the blackness. 

Before 1 knew what was happening, a snaky, black fur-covered arm reach- 
ed out and grasped my doublet. I screamed as the arm strove to drag me into 
the hole and I beat down with the torch. There was a bestial cry and the thing 
let go. 1 had only a glimpse, of a distorted, apish thing falling and the torch 
fell after, dwindling to a speck of light far below, like a meteor. 1 whimpered 
like a child and turned away from the pit into the welcome arms of John 
Stuart that closed about me like the jirok' arms of some saint. And with- 
out shame I shivered for a time in those arms as my fear took hold of me and 

"It's over now, Dark Agnes," 1 heard the soothing deep voice of John 
Stuart. "And now you have naught to fear and naught to be ashamed of. 
You have done as well against this horror as any woman or any man could do. 
And if, ill the end, it comes to this, there is no shame for' you to act as 
a woman Dark Agnes, for you are quite a woman, indeed." 

I did not object as he lifted me lo my feet. "Arid it may chance," he went 
on, his voice now lighter and wilh that familiar hint of laughter to it, "that 
mall, when you ride froth from this city, you will find me riding at your side." 

free "Do not forget the curse that hangs over me, John Stuart, Does il not 

ched bother yoi; that the inta who ride with Dark Agnes ride to an early grave?" 

"Not a hit," John Stuart said, with booming laughter. "For what isian- 
anno other CUCse, hurts or less, upon the head of a Stuart?" 

idfly. And together we replaced the stone slab in the opening in the floor and 

then helped Francoise de Bretagny from the crypt and up the stairs back to 
her own bedchamber, leaving behind the horror that pursued her. 

iossch im 

I for 


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Witchcraft & Sorcary Sub. Deo*., 1855 W. Main St., Al ham bra, Ca. 91801 


The Wind Responds, the Wind Obeys the Wind Kills. 



There was a man who had a shop oil' a -maS! dars ..ircel near the river, a 
man reputed lu he a sorcerer, (l was to this man Paul Benedict went. 

Benedict was short, a bit [dumper than he should have been. His neutral 
colored hair was rerndfog and his eyes frmctfcured only with the help of strong 
contact lenses. He was in his early thirties, U>.> Eitij in a iuhstantial amount of 
money that was mostly income fmm trust funds, arid yet had accomplished 
nothing in life. In fart there was nothing between him and starvation except 
his inheritance. 

But the inheritance meant nothing to Claudia Palmer. She was a lovely girl, 
a tall, willowy brunette with the ijste to dress in such a way that her beauty 
was subtly heightened. She worked as a legal secretary at one of the city's 
leading law firms. She was a girl who spen; i.ej days w<iiking in an office fill- 
' .'.!*'.! Liviinportefiijaeri: 

leaders of industry. How could any girl like that take notice of a nobody such 
as Paul Benedict? Several times- he tried to date her and each time she put him 
off. Aside from Claudia, the closest thing Benedict had to a real interest was 
the occult. Even here he had never applied himself because he never had to. 
But now he felt the need and he knew of the shop and went to it. 

The front of the shop was dark and littered with a miscellany of old boxes 
ind junk, so covered over with dust and cobwebs as to give the appearance 
that the place was dnsed. But. thsr :!oor was not locked and from under a door 
at the shop's back, Benedict saw light. He made his way to the door and 
knocked. A voice said, "Come in, Mr, Benedict, Come in." 

Benedict opened the door and entered. 

The room was small but seemed larger even than the shop because it was 
scrupulously clean tisul zlus»~i empty. There were two common old-fashioned 
wooden kitchen chairs with woven wicker seats. They faced each other across 
a small rug that was black and red with strange emhlems worked upon it in 
dull blue. An old man sat in one of the chairs and motioned Benedict to sit in 
the other. 

He was rather thin, hi& grey hair thick and neatly combed back from a high 
forehead. He wore a shiny black suit that was too large for his emaciated 

"Please do not step on the rug," he said, "I assure you that to do so would 
be perilous." 

Benedict carefully avoided the small rug and seated himself. "You're Mr. 

"Indeed lam." 

"How did you know my i 

"You c 
me. How silly. If I at 

■ asking a. 

k how he knows 

"Then you probably know why I come here?" 

"That takes no sorcery. There are but two reasons that bring people in me. 
One is to have me work a spell. The other is to have me leach them how to 
work spells." 

"I've eome to learn magic." 

"It. isssimfjls:. thirisriiiietrn. lVJu«h sort wr.s«Jd ysm Insm?" 


"There arc types of magic, Mr. Benedict. I myself am a master of a most 
interesting specialty rug magic. You see the small rug before you. It is a 
prayer rug, but in its way more similar to the pentagram and magic circle than 
it is to any other prayer rug you have ever seen. With it I may summon de- 
mons and work minor devinations on occasion. It was with this rug that 1 
learned your name. It may also serve me in working certain spells of a minor 
nature, I wove the rug and worked nines of power into it myself. There is no 
other like it in the world and only I can control it. It is like a familiar in some 
ways. Of course there are other forma of magic involving nigs you have heard 
of the magic carpet, I have no doubt. In my home are many rugs from all over 
the world. Rugs that do a variety of things. Rug magic is but one form of aor- 

"Is it powerful?" 

"It is useful and practical and easy to use. You will run little danger in 
learning it. But in final analysis it is but little more powerful than the parlor 
'ricks of a showman." 

"I want to master a form of magic, but it must be a strong form. " 

"That involves danger." 

"I don't eare. 1 want to master something powerful." 

"Necromancy, perhaps? Demonology? But no. You will be taught these 
things— they are useful to all sorcerers. But they are not what you want. To 
raise a demon is easy but to bargain with one for what you need is not eaiy- 
and is frequently costly. There are spells by which a magician could master 
demonology but they are lost and I cannot teach them to you. No, you want 
elemental magic." 

"What's that?" Benedict asked. 

The wrinkles that must have been the old man's mouth parodied a smile. 
"It works by fire, by water, by earth or by air. The four elements. You will 
leam to summon elemental, to say a rune that will make fire burn for you m 
cause water to flow to your needs. You can govern earthquakes by controlling 
earth elementals or make the ground open to you. But perhaps the one which 
you really want to master is air. " The old man paused a moment as if think- 
ing, then went on. "Yes, for the wind itself is controlled by the elementals of 



nd magic," Benedict said, "Can y< 
:ach you magic. I will teach you 


speak with the dead -a sccrel many 

a rune and how to apeak it. i will lell 

know. It is (he runes 

n«mg the many planes of exii 

sorcerers reject. 1 will teach yoi 

you of hooks which hold ccrtai 

which hold the secrets of the elementals. With the prop, 

rnon any elemental and make it do vour bidding Tin- trick is in hoi 

cr over them, in being able to make them do more for you each t: 

teach you wind magic arid Ihe.i show you the plan* where there i 

"Bui I can become powerful. . . I ean' become the moat powerful 
wind magic in tin? world." 

"It is mil an easy magic to master." Charles said. '"How you d< 
you, nut me. And there are others who are powerful masters of wi 
In this very city lives a man who may be the most powerful maate 
magic of all tune. Hia name is Simon I msa.lle " 

"I will better him," Benedict said. 

'Tttrhaps. Time will tell, aa th, 

s. Tin 


Anil so 
from the 

dsed into monlhs and Paul Benedict learned magic 
man who called himself Mr. Charles. He learned to 
and summon minor demons: he learned to make tal- 
ismans; and he learned a acore or more of simple rune,. He learned to make 
the mirrors of magic: that which is made from well or river water and shows 
the future, that which is made from an ink and shows the present, and the 
polished stone that reflects the condition of a man's soul. He learned of herbs 
and the powers of certain atones, metals and -.«-. He (earned of rituals, of 
lost and forbidden books, of amulets. He became slowly but skillfulU adept. 
And with time his skill increased. 

!:> she spsrr bedroom of his spas'iniem he ■■■•■>. <ip his htsc-k renin arid -pi 
the spells that made it impossible for any but him to enter while he lived. 
Here he drew a pentagram on the fl,.w and ..el aflame ,-ieven candle, of eternal 
light tlial would burn a* long as he remained alive. Here be placed the aeeou- 

alanlty acquiring. 

And after a time passed and Heni'diei '<, .vasirry >■!' magic surpassed the ex- 
pectations of his teacher, came the time when id learned the first of 
the wind runes. 

And never during that time did he forget Claudia Palmer. 

She lived in the same apartment building us rtaiedk [, thou|ih her apart- 
ment was smaller and on a tower floor. He saw he, frequently and they would 
nod to one another and speak briefly if they met on the elevator. At times 
Benedict would ace her with some man and the pangs of jealousy and ilia own 
fury would direct hatred toward the man-hut he controlled himself and bur- 
ied bis hatred in his studies. Then he noticed that Claudia was seeing someone 
to the exclusion of all other men. 

Two months after learning the first of the wind runes, Benedict knew as 
much about wind magic as Mr, Charles could teach him. 

Each night Benedict would go for long walks in the park near hi- apart- 
ment and test and develop his skilL As soon as he was certain no one was 
close enough to notice, he would take a piece of paper from bis pocket and 
fold it into an airplane. He would summon the elementals of the air In catch 
the small paper plane and carry it tn the terrace uf his aparlmenl so that he 
would find it when be returned home. 

Or he would call the elementals and have them bend trees almost l.o the 
ground or blow leaves from one tree without distrubing any others. He soon 
resiizs-d that made. Ilk" any form of exero-e, tired ni<e o'.il. There *•■•:£ Ion its 
to his strength and to increase those limits he musl exercise. 'He devised sys- 
tematic procedures for increasing his strength as well as his skill. Kxercises'in 

He grew to know the wind elementals and to know how lo deal with them. 
His experimentation found the ways of varying hi' tonal inflection that in- 
creased his hold and power over them. 

And finally the evening came when Mr. Charles admitted thai Benedict 
knew all be could learn from him. 

"'So where do I go to leam more?" Benedict asked. 

"There are places. There are people. There are books. A friend of mine, a 
man who has no use for wind magic but who has use for money has the 
Crimoire Elemental which confab', sr.aiiv «].«t!U vow could not learn from me. 
II.. |-n . ;l. .1 

"No matter. I must have that book. Get it for me and I will pay you, " 

"It can be done. " He named a price that *a; every !.ni as large as Benedict 
felt it would be. 


Benedict was certain of his power, but he could nol forget the man Charles 

l;;t«l cslleJ perhf., ...■:■..>,,. .,...■., chitj^c. who lived. Wlih (he 

fti-tin- «fttlnisia«ji v;i;h which he studied ^rvrry, H< :H now ->-; .sivnii 

studying Simon Crisaiile. 

He was an easy man to learn about, this Simon Crisaille. He was well 
strikingly handsome 

socWSv f 

Jl busi: 


export business and the p..., ... ... „., ..,„„., ..,, „„„,., 

and anlique shop. He was sin;!* atsd «<w'd to have no family. He traveled 
lot. obstensibly because of his import business. But Benedict" suspected thi 
Grisaille's travels carried him frequently to -hose out of the way places wbic 
are of special inters So magidasis. When he was in lown Crisaillc lived in 
penthouse a lew blocks from where Benedict lived. He was as well liked as h 
was known and few prc^l..- „,< - fl J aware that he was anvthing more than 
playboy with the pwfoijnd ?«.«! luck i« hsve. s stew business manaeer t 
keep him from losing his business. 

Yet in another strata of society he was more highly regarded. Among thi 
portion of the city's populace thai understood ami jiMslited magic, eilh, 
good or otherwise. Grc-ailh w*s held lo he the master. It was said of bin 
he was one of the most skillful sorcerers in history and that no man ever 
iieed such mastery over the elementals of the air before, 

A sort of jealousy grew up in Benedict as he learned o 


a differ 

« ihi' i 

felt for the man who was now dating Claudia Pal 

I'hal man's name was John Dexler and he worked for an insurance com- 
pany as an investigator. For weeks Benedict had sat in his black room and 
stared into a magic mirror to learn about Dexter and lo work up the courage 
hat he knew was lo come. On the day be/ore lie was to pick up (he hook 

r> Mr. 

cificJ 1. 

He spied on Dexter all that day from the safely of his black rooi 
Dexter was getting ready lo leave for home, Benedict called him. 

"1 have some information for you about ihe Spangler case." Bene 
knowing that Dex' - --' ' -" " ' '" " " 

don't think Spangler 

aclly satisfied with the ..,._..,.... 
le claims lo be and 1 have proof." 

"Can you drop bv my office. 

"I'd rather meet you. Tonight and alone. I'm nervous about this." 

"i.«ok. can'l you give me some idea-" 

'Til show il to you in person." 

"How much you want?" 

"I'm not after money. If you think this ia wurlh money and want lo pay 
me after you see it, then fine. I got a score to settle wills Spangler and I think 

There was a pause but Benedict was mi worried. He knew how thoroughly 
Dexter distrusted Spangler and how easy it would be for him to believe olhe'r 
people shared his feeliuga. 

"Okay," came Uextcr's voice. 'I'll meet you wherever you say." 

Benedict arrived at the park earlv and stationed himself among ihe trees 
on the side of a small hill. The bench where Dexter was lo meel him was lo- 
cated across an open playing field near another hill. Steps led up the hill to a 
small path and a stone wall bordered not nnlv Ihe path but the steps as wi II 
Part of Ihe wall was directly above tile bench. ' 

Benedict watched as Dexler arrived and slood wailing. Benedict waited 
until Dexler finally sal down on the bench and settled back, impatient lull 
determined nol to leave wilhout that evidence. 

When Dexler was settled on Ihe bench, Benedict began. 

Sheltered by trees from casual view he feared no detection. He raised hi., 
arms. He began chanting the rune in a low mice. 

He fell the stirring of ihe wind in answer to his rune. He spoke another 
rune, this one a command to action. 

And Ihe wind acted. 

The wind moved to the wall above and behind the unsuspecting Dexter. 
Benedict called his command again and all his strength urged the wind on. 
Sweat hrokc out on hia brow as the wind pushed on the wall. The wind pushed 
harder as Benedict repeated the rune. Pushed harder-and the wall broke. And 
al that moment Dexter turned as if first aware [hat something was wrong. 
Benedict was too far away to hear his screams. He saw a huge wind driven 
rock fly from the wall, strike the man he hated on the head. He saw the red 

of blood as Dexter fell to the ground and other Blurs.;* from tlif br--iLfiii wall handsome, with a llghl perpetual ,111 11 

tumbled down (he hill around him. People saw what happened and panicked. slightly ironic. He wa. dressed well hut rather casually ami gaie He unprcs 

Someone tun to Dexter and bent down over him. A crowd gathered. of being totally at horn.-. which in a sense he wa,. Mill lleiic. id knew 

Nearly exhausted from hi* efforts, Henedict dropped lo ins knees. II 

_4_ smile was focu.e.l on Uau.iia. 

The next night lie went to the shop early. ''"'^.'i 1 '"'" , ,, . , . i M , r ,., " ( risiilh hi ■•' 

He and heard Chiirles' rasping voice say, "Comr in.'' ^ '' ■'"' ' . . , 

^You're early," (.Tiarles said as Benedict entered. "-'! Z'hi a hobb] IwKrilVrw.W ' 

"Ye,- no. No. something's wrong." *"•""" \"^''}'' ii , . , . , T . |M ,-„, , ■ 1 . 111( | j . l VaUurr .,„„ 

"1 have the mnney.l want the book." . ',,,,. , , , ill, 1 .1 

"I can sec it in vour late. You've dun. -oir.eileng wrong, haven't you?" ■* laid Benedict. I hop.- v.„, .Ion I mui.l u- jn,i i. omii, ai .| . . 

Uiarhs henl over the .mall rug before hi* chair. Bencdul saw his hand Ihis, Mr. '-'^'- , ■ ■ , ,■ Jf . ,„,,,„. ,.;,.„ ,, ,,,„..,,-, h(lrl i( , r .„ 

flick «u% JBaking ;s (pick iiccvoL,? jiassagr ahov,; it. Coarsei api.-ke is phrase - ■■- ^ ■ . _ , ( 

Benedict did not understand and the rug changed in a subtle way. 11 seemed t , ( | ,, ^ 

to waver and become darted like lieate.d id. Charts peered at the rug and . ". V ( . ( ... ( , lll |,]\ llll tell .,n lie more a 

a bsili oi horror and disbelief pssscd upon his features. vl '"' '" ' ; "' "" 

"You've killed a man. You've used magic as a murder weapon!" it? ' 

"I brought your monev. Hive m--. the book." '' 
"You can't have it now. You'll have lo pay for your crimes." 

Benedict saw a paper wrapped parcel in the corner, "is that the book';" he 'i wo nights later, a- rlem-diel wa.. l-eiumun: home. In' -aw <.ri,adb ; 

The old II jumped lo his feet and pushed against Henedict. trying to .-oinc remark ni' I oi-adle'.. The, gol inlo t.ri„..lle s ear and drove oil we 

kern him from the hook. Benedict shoved him aside !tod picked up the parcel. -eeing Mi-.i- ili. i lh Inrned ami wet.l hack the way lie e.iu.e. walking for : 

.,-srW the paper from it. It was the hook, all right, a thick ouarto book in before hi, rage | 1ib «| billed int.. pnrpose. 

faded ailtiejuc binding, lie opened the hook to the title page and saw words _ I he neU evening, after everyone .■!-,■ i.i I he budding exeepl the watc 

written there in a language few psopis' ...rsdcrsloon. a language Charles had in the lobby wa* asleep, went to the root ol ll.c hmldiii" iitid : 

taught him and told hit" *»>' old before ■Mkmti* sunk. '»r a long time Willi the ,tr<.ng wind wluppmii .iro I him. He * (u- 

R B ,isdktESfio<;fd3tth«V.idfoao. »'"' '''' '"'' x"" 1 "'""' • ll '"" 1 >""• '""';' l' kl > ! "'- f "' , » lil V l ,u (l'> ?'»' 

„.,,„* ,,,„> or, (he iW. Sk-r.etiH topped beside him know lu.n heller. ■o,m„e nu.r, lam, I..,. ».lh and responsaye lo lus 

and examined him 'rarefullv. Hi B breathing was normal. The fall seemed only rnirnds. It wa, like tru g ,o,ne , sal 1 ,.,, g.,,,,,,1 ,1, eonhdenee „,,,; 

lo have knocked him out. !' " l " l \"--"f' "- l 1 '"' 1 ^ "'t' 1 -real.T ease arid M.c.e.s. . in.,,,, t.r 

That wasn't enough, wa- said to be the ine.l ma.tiT ,,l the air elemenlals aloe. I„ ,Mea 

There were other elemenlals than the elemental of the air and though he would lake skill. \iul nimniif. 

was mailer of air. benedict knew ihe basic runes of command to the other r.ach malil t.-r a month lienedul «e,,l lo lire rool ol lu, aparlmeril I 

elemental*. The elemental of fire, for example. '"S- r ■"••> '»"? '"• n ""' s J '' ' ' ' l !"" l(l l ,la >. J """ 

He started to leave and as he did so. t.hsrle.'i-ugejiLighlinscye?. >jj.;.ik.t!:j!; : "- ,( ' : ";d ■"' -k' 11 a "d al I I I ! r I he »n 

3 , dri atiiini him from any spell on the rug, rlcnedicl henl came Ins. .-o greal wa- Ins eonlrol ol it by I he end ol that month tin 

and folded it in take, with him. Then he *poke another rune. "'"'; *'riiie,l a« ■■<.li-iilit.ii ol his own mind and Ii.hIv. 

He was blocks away before he heard >b- sirs,,., ^ the fire engines. The next >■■ ^ >« nollimg could stop hum 

morning he read in Ihe paper about the fire and the death of a lonely old *»t even Nmon l.nsaille. 
.hr.pkecper. h, "' i '- 
tention that) yesterday's story of the freak accident thai killed the man m 

Henedict was not expert at reading the ancient language of sorcery, lint he 'I'" 1 '- Uj,J,!lil - ^ !a \ ' , '"" ! '' [['■ 

knew something about it and was determined to work the rest of it out. It m l" lluig to lt .ml. 

wkpiIow lediouswork. hut he read the book on wind magic. ' ' """ ' lilkl ' •' ,|llr 

Head the book and tried the exerei*es that increased his skill, hi the next > «' hesitated a imniile then slipped lie- ei, ; , ([i . , |e entered her apart 

few week* his power and ma d grew. ■■ ' ' 

And one day he 3 poke to Claudia in the elevator. IVrhaps his power gave >r lark t.lue .->,■, we not ,o .lark a, the .lies, l„,l 15, nuliel i.iu^lil 

him new eonf.denee. but he asked her out and she accepted. They dined arid Ihe n.nke.l. in.i-l heauli ul e ? , s he had •■„■? ,een. >., you r. e,. U ing .,-.. 

saw n show together Aferwards ifiev wfttt d;,.ir;h>g. ih- was not very good go ..til . are )„n ^ |„. „ ; i,,| 

but ,he didn't seem to mind. More dates followed. Thing, finally seemed lo ^ ^ " , [ , t , ,„ .„„ „„. „,„„„,■- 

hs goinghis wav. „. , . „ .j ' ... 

A month later he saw the notice in the paper: Creole- was, sbowmg a > ' « . i. in.-r, was .. ., .-, iii^.n. . . 

s^dflt dis^Uv of isrM.ohimhi.u art and Benedict succumbed to wh„n-y and I aul - 

,| d oh , wit! .11 > , II. ■-.".! r\l\' ll.i. 

lied \nd in truth the display was -]orge, hm. " 

fascinating though it wa* not a form of art he particularly cared aboul. "hcl «■> ot me. 

"Oh h-*k." dsa«5ia said.r.olicisiasoriH-aiiii'S fWncdict toll,. wed acro^ i^.-'i i-ns-olh. I -;m o.-iea! '* " f - ■ *"■ '; M" ■" ' "■' ■ 

the room to a small statuette. "What's that?" "''I"' P' "' l "''- Hl " Mi llL "' k ' '!/ "? ■■" ""^ '"" ,L "^ """ , >" ' 

Benedict saw a small jade statue, green streaked with hits of brown. A hi \ M i ill- -elom 

small animal perched like a gargoyle above what ^emed to lie a hehneted f.e . jini.--, daudia. lie , lie saw a ,,., e pa. ,iu, -onu .in. op- 

human head. Before Benedict could answer, a deep voice [rum behind said, d.-.k across the room. I i.ant you to write a uoi. , n. s,uo. 

"It'* Altec A statuette of a rabbit associated with the goddess Mayahuel. what kind ol note. 

1 and»o did Benedict. "'I'l'*""- •■"■ I"!"'- *"" ( «■'';" : " 11 >'""■ 

He saw Simon l.risaille standing there. alie wl ' 1 ' 1 u> l '"■ ri, '- k : "" 1 l ,lrk ''" !T '' J""- .. 

It was fienediet's first really close look at the sorcerer. He was tali and r-ow write Meet mc on the rool ami s,e„ it. 


.She started lo yet lo her feel bill before sin- .-.>,ild .-land Benedict spoke "it doesn't matter. Soon I'll Mu»f vour death." 

a rune (,f Control. She allied back, unable to resist, lie )c| Ihe rune hold her "ll"... alway.i a nuslakc lo use ma^ic Inward such narrow ends.*' 

fur a minute, then released her. lie would need all hi, power i„ his fight with "I don't think it's narrow to demand what - !- due you. Itul that doean'l 

lirisaille. matter, Grisaille. 1 want to show you how wilt I learned whirl Charles taught 

mv skills. I'm (!ood.'l.ook-ni, how ,ou.'" ' ' ' Grisaille sLmdwaili'u.. 

lie p „t to his feel and walked across the roof thoii^li not lo the edge "My "[)r, you admit defeat's,, easily" lienerhel demanded. 

He spoke the rune that aroused the wind and hrought it to his aid. He Me stepped hack and ealled more loudlv. Tin- wind responded. It whipped 

spoke in words and terms loo aneienl (or the prl lo understaud-bul words across the roof with such fury thai Grisaille w,i- foreed lo brace himself a- 

and terms the elemenlals knew well I he wind answered. g a j„ st the doorway. IV wind spun around him.attackmtf him mrmlessly . 

Ahruptly something flew up over llie edge of ihe building and sclllcd at Now I ' Kill:"" 
'■•'■' ■ ■" " ■-. ....!,. 1,1,. .1 , .,. ..,.., ,..,. 

"No, not a magic carpet." Henedid .aid "Take a look at il." He spoke and wind whipped Ihe words from his mouth with such fury that 

He held il up for her. "It belonged lo my Icaiher Me left it lo me when he Henediet never heard ihe nine lie spoke, ihe wind slirred wildly, as if torn 

as yet, hut 1 will." "Kill!" Bencdicl commanded, "kill now 1 " 

"Whal do you take me for?" he said, iii sudden anger. "1 sent Ihe wind to II lifted Ihe -mail prayer rug from the roof and threw il into the air. It 

fetch it, Claudia. The wind obeys me, I'm Ihe ..reatesl master of wind magic hovered a moment, daneinc in air, whirled by till' wind, then shot *tf»i»fct 

in the world now. And do you kn,>w who the seeond grealest master of wind for Benediet. Il slapped acro-s bis face, eoverinfj il, blocking his vision and 

magic is'' Simon Grisalle." his breath. He coughed am! slavered back, Ihe wind playing aroocd biro. 

"There's nothing sopcrc.^.ursi ahmit Simon. Or ynu either," His leg struck the safely wall al Ihe edge of Ihe roof and he lost balance, lie 

"There isn't? Ask your friend John llextcr if you ever learn that secret. did not see Cri.-iaiile leap lo grab for him and ink,. 

Ask him about the wind thai caused thai so-called freak accident that took It wasn't rifjfil! He was ihe wind master nol Grkaillci 

his lift. Ask the fool who made ihis carpet about Ihe fire [hat look his life. But as he fell il seemed to Henediet thai Ihe rushing wind was laughing 


SPACEWAT; Issues 1 through S, published in the '60s. BSc per copy; 
set $2.50. The four issues published in 1939 and '70, 50 tents each. 
Stories by A. E. van Vogl, Andre Norton, August Derleth, Arthur J. 
Burks, Forrest Ackerman, Ralph M. Farley, Emil Petaja, Gerald Page. 
FANTASY BOOK : Published in late '40s and early '50s and sold mostly 
by subscription. Five issues still available: 1, 8, *, fl, 6. BBc each; set 
$1.50. Stories by A. E. van Vogt, Robert Bloch, Andre Norton (Andrew 
North), Cordwainer Smith, Isaac Asimoy & James MaeCreigh, etc. 
GARDEN OF FEAR: A booklet containing weird-fantaiy stories by 
H. P. Lovecraft, David H. Keller, M. IX, L, A. Eshbach, Miles Breuer, 
M. D. and Robert E. Howard. The title story, relating the adventures 
of Hunwulf the Barbarian, is by Robert E. Howard. 88 per copy. 

English publications available: 
MOONS FOR SALK, BLACK AVENGERS. Also firut two issues of 
VARGO STATTF.N magazine and NEW WORLDS No. 21. 85c each. 
Can also supply copies of many of the digest mags of the 'BOs, such as 
50 cents each. Send your want lists. Fifties and sixties only. 

F. P. C. I., Book Dept., 1855 W. Main St. Athambra, Ca. 91801 

The Hate Was Real and Deadly. But Who Could Have Sent It? 


by Tcrri Piickard 

Nadine first felt the cold touch of the thing creeping, pawing at her 
■■ a dog paws at a bone. She whs alone in the house at the time, doing 
those unimportant household chores all women must do to make a house 
a home when— it reached out to touch her. She didn't know what it 
was then. She only knew a chill ran through her, and that the thing 
was directed. It knew who she was, and it knew she was aware of its 
being tliere. At firlt it stayed for only a short time. It didn't have 
much strength then. 

It came again. On days when she was alone, the thing would strike 
at her. As Fear began to grow in her, the other's strength grew, too. 
Esch time it left her drained and more afraid. It knew her well now. 
It knew just when its coming would have the most effect on her. It 
knew just when she would be rooted to the floor with fear of it and how 
she could be 80 used, the perspiration of her fear would be icy cold upon 
her forehead and lip. As the months passed It began to come back more 
often, just being there, quiescent, waiting. Every once in awhile its 
coldness reached out to her, and then withdrew to sit and wait again. 

Then, one day, she went shopping for a new dress for the Country 
Club dance. After much effort she found a pale green chiffon that clung 
to her figure as though it was made just for her. She felt proud, imag- 

ining her husband Jeffs eyes appraising her as he looked her up and 
down with that "Look what's mine" proud look of his. And then it hit. 

It hit her as though it held a whip. It slapped her face, whipping 
her legs and her arms in short, sharp tirades of angry lashes. She tried 
to protect herself with her arms; covering first her face, then her legs, 
trying, trying— trying to keep it from, striking her. She screamed a 
long, high shrill scream and the saleswoman grabbed and held her arms 
and in a pit of despsir she fought the thing back with all the mental 
strength in her. Now she knew what it was . . . hatred. Strong, demoniac 

Hate receded then and in its place came a short burst of mocking 
laughter as if from deep inside her. It left her shamed and cringing. 
As suddenly as it came, it was gone. 

She straightened and smoothed the dress down and her mirrored 
reflection no longer looked inviting and smug, but humiliated and de- 
graded. The saleswoman was chattering over her, and she murmured 
an apology and almost ran into the dressing room, her moments of 
happiness over for the day. 

IT kept coming to her, daily. And now, today, it had been stronger 
than ever before. She felt ravaged, brutally so, and still it was not 


over. Their anniversary party iu tonight, their first, and she had 
been trying to prepare for it. 

The Hate danced around the kitchen as she prepared the food, 
picking up everyday items in its whirlwind path and turning them into 
monstrous creations with a will of their own. Eggs broke as she picked 
them up; the lettuce withered as she touched it; the wine turned to 
vinegar as she added it to the cream sauce. It was everywhere and 
everything. It was becoming stronger with every passing minute. She 
Hood there crying, fighting it with all within her, stolidly keeping her 
hands moving with the minescule details of the party. She swore she 
would not let It have this night. 

"Everything is done now," she screamed at It. 'TTou cant undo 
what is done!" She ran out of the kitchen and ran upstairs to ready 

In the shower the Hate joined her, crowding her into a comer, push- 
ing, shoving. It turned off the cold water and she screamed again as 
she felt the scalding hot water pouring onto her body. She tried to 
reach the faucets, but It was there between her and the wall, fencing 
her in with its attempt to prevent her reaching them. Finally she 
succeeded, and she leaned aginat the wall, moaning with the agony of 
Struggle and pain. 

She dressed slowly, as the Hate sat on the bed and laughed. Its 
hostility was all around her, there was an oppresive weight of it in the 
sir. She could sense it, taste it, smell it; yet she could not make it 
take substance. All day it had been building, building until now she 
gasped for air with the heaviness of it. 

She seated herself at the dressing table. Her powder puff, already 
dipped in powder, Was in her hand, but the Hate held it motionless; 
stopped as a movie is stopped into a still life picture, complete, yet not 
complete in its tale. 

She gased at the mirror, her eyes searching the turnabout reflection 
as though hoping to sec the Hate "m form. A shiver went through her, 
for there was nothing, nothing but her own reflection, yet she sat 
locking, searching. 

The door opened and Jeff Stuck his head into the room. 
"Almost ready? Everyone will be here soon. Come down and have 
a drink with rac. Okay?" 

Nadine' s eyes slowly turned to Jeff. She had kept him unaware of 
what had been happening all these months. Her eyes remained clouded 
for a moment and then cleared. 

■'I'll— I'll be right down," she answered. Turning back to the mirror 
she raised the puff— and was able to pat her nose with it. She stood 
lip, putting the puff slowly down. She drew a deep breath and left the 
room, closing the door to keep the Hate inside, although she knew it 
would not help. 

She could hear the guests arriving as she crossed the vestibule. 
"Damn, I won't even have time for a drink first," she thought as 
she turned back to let them in. 

Sully and Bill were the first ones to arrive. Breathless, as always, 
Sally came in, going directly to the living room without pausing to take 
off her coat. Marching herself to the table with the hors d'ouevres she 
Oohed and Aahed over it, taking a nibble her" and 'here as proof of its 
appetising looks. 

By the time Nadine had retrieved Sally's coat, and hung it in the 
closet the next guest had arrived. For a few minutes she was kept busy 
and bo was Jeff, hanging coats and murmuring the words of greeting 
that came automatically without thought. 

Her mind was not on her guests. She could not get the heavy feeling 
of fear to leave her. As soon as she could she escaped from the room 
to the kitchen where she leaned weakly against the counter. Waves of 
sickness kept rising In her, flooding through her. 

"Oh, God," she thought. "What is the matter with me?: I feel as 

though I am going to die." _ 

She stood there a moment more gathering her strength for the night a 

ordeal. Then taking another platter of canapes, she pushed through 

the swinging door to face her guests. 

No sooner had she entered the room when panic stricken she stood 
there, the tray held precariously tipped in her hands. It came in wave 

going to be tonight. 

The Hate swept across the room smothering her with galelike force. 
It lifted the tray of canapes from her with a quick surge of power. 
They fall to the floor. Everyone turned to look and she quickly bent 
lo hide the whiteness that masked her face. In the confusion of hands 
trying to help her pick up the food and debris, she felt the Hate break 

and little chills of silent laughter took its place. The laughter waJ 
almost as bad as the Hate for it mocked and derided her. As she 
stood up her eyes quickly searched the room over the heads of those 
still helping her. Who had come in while she was In the kitchen? She 
kept searching the faces of the guests os they sauntered about the room, 
looking for some sign of the mockery, something that might show the 
Hate that pursued her with such malice. 

Pat and Cberi had come in. Clieri had been Jeff's girl before the 
quick summer romance that ended In Nadine and Jeff's marriage. Linda 
and Ous? Gus was Jeff's partner. Florence and Stan, her husband's 
parents, had arrived too. Florence came over and hugged her. Stan 
handed her their gift. As she opened it, she thought to herself, "Funny, 
I'm like two different people ... 1 never knew a person could carry on a 
normal conversation while her mind was on other things." The gift was a 
beautifully matched string of pearls for her and a matching set of 
pearl cuff links for Jeff. She turned around automatically as Florence 
hooked the clasp on them and kissed her saying, "... these are for the 
girl my son loves." 

Nowhere was there a sign of the Hate. It had left the room quietly 
as though it had never existed. But Nadine knew better. She knew it 
was waiting, somewhere. 

She had to tell someone. But not just anyone. It had to be somnne 
she could count on, someone who would care. Her eyes sought out 

.Florence would, understand. She was close to Jeff. as a mother, and 
.close to Nadine as. a mother-in-law. Nadine could not tell Jeff, could not 
bring herself to tell' him. But she had to tell someone. She had to tell 

" ... so there I was In the □> iddle of Main Street and the light had 
already turned red so I couldn't go back, and there you were holding 
onto a lampost, crying, Nadine. Whatever was wrong, anyway?... 
The words registered as if they were words from another planet. She 
looked up to see Linda standing beside her with a cocktail glass in her 
hand, expectant — waiting for an answer. The room was silent, every- 
one was waiting for her reply. Even Jeff had come to stand beside her, 
looking at her strangely. 

"Hey, sweet? How come you never mentioned it?" he asked con- 

"Oh, it wasn't very important," she answered. "I just got a little 
diaay all of a sudden." 

She felt the Hate sweep back into the room again, laughing. It was 
mocking her, laughing at her excuse. 

She turned to Jeff and smiled up at him. 
"Darling, let's have some champagne now," she whispered. 
Jeff grinned and put his arm around her saying, dramatically, "I 
guess this Is the moment we have all been waiting for." 

Stan walked over to them. In his hand was a bottle of the champagne 
Florence had saved from that they served at the wedding. He popped 
the cork and poured a silver goblet full. Taking the goblet from his 
father, Jeff turned to Nadine. The guests were all around them, smiling, 

"Darling, this champagne was saved for today, remember?" 
"Yes, I remember. I love you more now than I ever did then," she 
said quietly. 

"That's how it should he. Me too." 

He held the goblet out to her. "You first. Then I will drink from 
it just as we did one year ago, to show how we'll always share things 
in life." 

Not everything. Not the horror. Her mind whispered. But she 
took the goblet and drank deeply of it. 

As she started to drink, she sensed the hatred near. 
She couldn't take much more. She had to talk to someone — had to 
seek help. She spotted Florence. She would have to ask Florence's help. 
There was no one else. She lifted the goblet and drank. 

She felt the Hato tear Into her, twisting her insides and tearing, 
tearing at her, and the necklace seemed to tighten — tighten unbearably. 
She gagged and choked as the liquid burned a path down her spasmed 
throat and she knew It wasn't a love cup, but a Hate cup. As the 
room swam aronnd her, she fell and Jeff crouched over her. She saw 
shock and concern mingled on his face and she saw the Hate, saw it 

In a way, it was almost good to have it over with, to know finally 
whose Hate was that strong. It was a relief to see the look that could 
kill and as the darkness closed in the last thing she heard came like a 
"ladowy whisper over the mocking laughter ringing in her ears, iay- 


Beginning a new regular feature. An all-time great fantasy writer 
gives us a peek behind scenes. This time: a glimpse of Ralph 
Milne Farley, author of the Radio Man novels, 


» *u? 'Mm: 

E3* 24?* 

oo*x mm 

The fantasy fiction world moves inio the age of nostalgia. Amateur and 

rose and sullen garnet crags-the uoaiil!* <iia!kii, stirring in the bre- 

semi-professional publisher meiiiuilsike fcsvorite authors of long ago. Dealers 

eze, like cobras when they hear the Hindu's flute-hut, it is never like lhal 

offer, at fancy prices, letters, first draft M3S, photos, and other sacred relics 

first crossing, early that morning of April, 1134. 

of deceased writers. iJoliege B.1.ijdt*pii.s submit these based upon studies of out- 

[Mielher you oot 1 can again discover the lands of wonder packed between 

standing performers in this field. 

the covers of early issues of Weird Tales. With all the skill won over the years, 

And then, there is much rcminisciice of "The Golden Pays" which be[:an 

the few writers surviving from the Golden Days could nol infuse their work 

when, in 1923, Weird Tales opened strange gateways, revealing lands of won- 

with the ancient wonder that they used to feel. For loo long, thev have frater 

der. We know when the era began. Disapreemcnt arises only a; to its termi- 

nized with Ihe folk who live across the border: thev arc somewhat too much 

nation. No one question? thai it has ended. 

at home. 

Well, hardly anyone. 

Could a newcomer discover, and write with wonder in the soul? 

1 «t have to point out s faOOf app^ctnilv oseHoukeH; rise ?ca t -|es himsslf 

Don't know. Find one and ask him. Or her. 

and how he changes with the years. 

We recall the days before Weird Tales. 

"They don't build them thai way anymore, " is the sorrowful summing up 

The newcomer can not recall a time when there was nol fantasy fiction. 

when speaking, for instances, of cars or of houses. Though the words are not 

Neither does he remember when there was no" T. V„ no radio. Me, 1 remember 

the same, the spirit is no differs; «iv-..! Ihrre k (;;lk of fiction written during 

wiping the soot from inside the glass "chimneys" of the kerosene lamp which 
lighted 'he. farmhouse. 

the Golden Days. No one bothers to add/'iVeiffcpi- do they r«W them that 

may, anymore." 

' Wherever 1 go, I hear it said that there were giants in those Golden Days. 
It was easier to be a Giant then. Today, you got to bust vourseJf to be 

We who met tt'eird Tabs in its beginning eulered new lands. ,1rgojy and 

others had for years offered the oncc-in-a-while story of the supernatural, (he 

even a five-foot-seven, junior pvk Cohath. There was much good work then 
There was also a tot of stuff you couldn't sell today. 1 know. I wrote some 
of il. I was embarrassed and unhappy as 1 re-read many a pound of tear-sheet 
and carbon copy, in trying to find a doisen Yiirsis for m.rrkting in a hard cover 
anthology. Some of the freshman -orafiojiitiiiH muck 1 had written-and, had 

uncanny, the tale of terror. Never before had there heen a magazine devoted 
wholly to the folks and the folk-ways of ''across ihe border." 

Heraelitus said, "You can not Hep twire into the mm? rwn, for fresh wa- 
ters ever flow about you. " 

sold!-I must have led a clean. Christian life to have got away with it. In fact, 

Long ago, driving out of Tucson, Arizona, I saw for the first time, the sun 

a lot of us must have led clean lives, in those Golden Days. 

rise from the Maricopa Desert. Oyer the (feats, 1 have made that drive, lime 

I am not here to analyse, evaluate, «tt«a»i, nut U) decide which was lit- 

and again, sunrise and sunset-Picacho Peak to Gila Rend-the grim, iron pur- 

erature, and which was Krap. My chore is to poke the ash-veiled embers of the 

ple shadows of sterile black peaks-tall sahuaros, arms reaching skyward-ash- 

past, and invite you to watch the sparks of memory as they're wafted up- 

tnrd; to tell of the fantasy fiction business of long ago. First, 1 11 say a thing 
B two, not mentioning names, about current fiction, As to style and treat- 
ntnt, some of it is better than 3 lot of what the Golden Days offered. 

It has to be. 

Readers and Writers: the Golden Days are here and now. Just an they were, 
fort)' years ago and more. Now that that is settled- "Sing, Muse, of days re- 
•inhered and of those neatly forgotten-" 

Mnny-pcrhaps most-of those who appeared in the old time fantasy maga- 
a were amateurs in (he lose sense of the inni Afilsoiisih they got rash for 
their stories, those writers were lovers of the art and the craft. Fur them, 
■riling was a mode of srilf-cXTrrcssion, a creative work, a hobby. When u fult- 
iitts professional did a story for Weird Tales, it was for the fun of it. Kales 
»ere low. Payment often was long delayed. And this brings to memory one 
.ho went to extreme in wjitisij! tor tin: Iw? of it. Hts te.aj, his business, and 
lib political activities imkt Ulfe s'lf-cvidcnt, 

rlisclientskncw him as Roger Sherman Hoar. His yarns appeared under the 
ly-line, Ralph Milne Farley, a synthetic composed of his mother's maiden 
Hint, and other family names, I had Sung addressed him as "RMF" before 1 
lamed that this was not his "real" name. He was well known in Argosy and 
other publications before W<:ini T»k.i ■i<-.zn-4 the lauds of wonder. 

Although it appears that RMF spwaiked its fantasy, oniy a dedicated re- 
(Hither could deteifroiie r.hs? scope oi his fictkmccring. It was because of one 
olliiamost improbable projects thai 1 finally met him. Atihittm of 1934, RMF 
hi plotting the num)>er three i!jdsode of the Jim Oiant series of lead novels 
[«■ True Gang magazine. 

What made this even more incredible was the rate: one half of one cent 

Hr:Tir:tnbf:r thai tin; wos long ;«>, w lifts tin; jjan^lec ^v m -.- gbmori?t<i, iss- 
Mtd !■» lisiiij! raaiisl.ieallv pcsciits .1 a~ s:> (.xlnrsiiotwr. pimji, tiSif^otJCK-pinh- 
(f.jwtetoft-peiflw, and' a II- around hoodlum. 

In the number three episode, Jim Grant and his henchmen were in trouble 
because of a rival who had connections in San Francisco's Chinatown. My 
pod friend, Otis Adelbert Kline, asked me to team up with RMF, and do the 
Chinatown stuff. RMF would furnish the plot and all the series lags and uliar- 
KtsirisstioriB; i>? would IrsltrKriSte my first drat! will. She story's p^iidccissors. 
Ik tied ilreiidy written She f^.'.'smig chspltrs. A« for irioispiatiliiia s phase of 
Qsicago gjin^sfsrt'e operutitiits in Sit;: Frsfsiijsf-o*^ Chinatown. S needn't be ■! 
Itickler for plausihiiitv. No holds barred, except that certain kev characters 
mutt not be killed off. And, naturally, those must be presented sympathe- 
a'eally-lhe gangster- hero, however far outside the law, had to be simpatico- 
■ really nice guy! 

I repeat, trie rate was one half of one cent a word, and RMF and I would 
iplif the micro-check. Writing for the love of it-see what i mean'; 

limes were had in 1934, but not THAT bad] After a long walk, devoted 
to much cogitation, I composed a statement entitled "THOUGHTS' WHILE 
STROLLING", ijv'wg seaiiori; whv my ■w.-bnoi bov c>qifrn-(-.r:e« with Chines.': 
lottery and San Jose Chinatown were inadequate. That my knowledge of 
sitings (rsinw had been grossly naggers led. 1i mchided only nu-As hiiitrknis 
events as a gun battle in which members of warring tongs blasted away un- 
til they run out of ammunition-net result, one warrior scratched bv a flying 
(tier of wood'f 

I hud never met a highbinder, a hatchet man, or a slave-girl, except in the 
KWpsper columns, and I'd never been in an opium den, and I'd not recog- 
Bleyen shi (pipe scrapings) if you fed me a spoonful. 

All that 1 said was used against me. He declared that my entire statement 
ndicated a broad and deep knowledge of Chinatown, and of the Oriental 
mind, 1 set to work. The job was fun. Even more so was the correspondence 
ijciikntal to the job, 'The. e*-s>hssg.s- !| i 'f Iters tva* .:,:. much stt expression of 
edsibilih', go»d IMIowship, of whimsy anil the joy <:>> \Wtac. •■:■ ii wa« ;tory 
I'mtnickn and story structure. 

This was a splendid build-up for our meeting, June 1 933, when RMF came 
toSiti Francisco to attend to some legal matters. 

My wife and I met him at the Place Hotel, and drove him down the "Penin- 
mls' to our home in the hills, a couple of miles outside Redwood City, and 
Berlooking San Francisco Hay. 

Beginning as disaster on the hoof, 1934 had ended in a landslide of sales. 
We fought an ultra- mod est cottage, one third down and payments too trifling 
to be a problem; also, a second hand Terraplane to replace that horror of a 
Model A Ford. All this, tick-tick, and now, a distinguished guest, a veteran 
fctionetr, I was having Golden Days of my own. ...after a couple of grim and 

RMF was not far from sin feet tall, and lean, angular of face. Whether na- 
builly swarthy, or deeply tanned, I could tiol decide. His head of hair, casu- 
jly flung back yet all in order, was quite blaek, with a few while ones as 

accents. The eyes, I think, were blue-gray-how the years play tricks with mem- 
ory!-bnt whatever their color, they, like the man himself, n'ere all alive, mag- 
netic, so very vital and, exceedingly friendly, His presence was the realisa- 
tion of his many letters. 

A detail persists in my memory: when hi. mentioned home and family, he 
did not. speak of "Elva" or of "mv wife." Instead, he used the old fashioned 
mode, giving it grace and charm when lie referred to "Mrs. Hoar," He pro- 
nounced the name in two syllables, with an ever so slight yel unmistakable 

that anv other 

;r fro 

-tilted or forn 

his <■* pfcwHSiH 

so risLural 

e seemed less than appropris 

His voice, his enunciation subtly suggested that this lady rated somewhat 
higher than other ladies. It was fascinating I • hear the intonation, and catch 
the lilt, the cadence, the affectionate savoring of the name he spoke. The most 
s'i/rJU: ■";)' noiucf; -yet, Siviog with oii', tlvsc niGrt thajj ihiriv-Civir vi Mn. .... 

My best guess is thai HMt was then nudging fifty. His vitality, sparkle, his 
rs'iisiiiag of ever\ shade e-f nurd<;i>d ihowitht aodpiijicripnc!-. jnighi have madf 
him seem younger than he actually was. 

1 have no reeol!e«»ii ul out fofid and drink. 

We said nothing memorable, except for one phase, during which he told 
us of a strange encounter, in Maine or Vermont. My wife and 1 were deeply 
impressed. I suggested that he had exchanged words with an Adept, a Master, 
a Mahalma RMF- neither agreed, nor rmtradicted. 

1 can not reconstruct that simple, sohcr narrative, I know onlv that the 
mood snr! ihc hcMne, rather Hist, the tenth, isnd :„rh isrspa.-.f thsMkse mo- 
menta are important in my recollection of HMF. 

landmarks of 7W. witl his sawed off 

shotgun -there was where beautiful Tien Yuk made her final, fatal play, to 
sacrifice herself and warn Jim Grant of danger- 

We put in a few hours at the Chinese opera Ihen, back to the flare Hotel, 
where we took leave of RMF. 

later, that year, he revised a New Orleans crime novelette which had be- 
more unsalable each time I reworked it. His touch did it and we split the 
check. Hetter yel, 1 had learned a thing or two. 

After some years of the mo omradel -ping in touch with each other, 
»f ''•:•! .".orilaei. The vi-ar? o:':;f: fr ( .«|, ,.y,;i., 

new directions. . . Writing from New Zeeknd. "■"flioni*;* G.L.C^ckcroft gave 
me RMF's address. Yes, I'd lost it. May, 1963, 1 wrote, saying that I was driv- 
ing to the east coast, and that I anticipated most sdgsriv having a few words 
with him, 

Mrs. Hoar answered for him, telling me that in 1951, Roger had a coronary 
and that since then, his health had been faihnr; That 1961), he. had prac- 
ticed law, with a Milwaukee firm That now he saw onlv members of the fam- 
ily. This was the jolt, the slug! Sadly, I read on: 

Roger had missed both his Harvard, and his Harvard Law School 50th re- 
unions. One of their grandsons was graduated from Annapolis, class of62. 
A younger grandson had appointments for both Annapolis and West Point, to 
enter in 196,'!. The lad would prohablv choose the former. Roger, she added, 
was a retired Army colonel-this I had never suspected! -whereas she came 
from a long line of whaling captains. 

Conies now a mishmash of statements which I can not guarantee. RMF 
had for some, years been associated with Bucvrus-Erie. an Ohio Corporation 
which manufactured heavy machinery. He had served in the Massachusetts 
State legislature. He had an outstanding S.-nowl-dj... and experience in the 
|..hyTk.3l *:ier,ces. 

Several years after getting Mrs. Hoai a gracious letter she went to far more 
trouble than my message merited! I learned that a Canadian Fantasy faiicier 
had learned from one in Great Britain, that Ralph Milne Farley-Roger Sher- 
man Hoar-had died. In lieu of condolences, I set down these lines of appre- 
ciation, and my happy memories of long ago. 

There is so much that I do not know of RMF, and so little that I do know, 
that, as one fan pointed out, 1 really had nothing to write. This in a way is 
ejltii-eiy correct. Yet this I must set forth! 

That RMF to a good friend and a good comrade during my early profes- 
sional years. I learned some things from him las words we wrote and the 
words we spoke to each other arc long gone but I still recall the. man, and 
picture him, however time-blurred the image is. There is nothing clear, today, 
except that the few hours we spent, in 1935, remain alive and vivid, so that 
detail) are immaterial Ilifs persistence in ;sv memory. I think, is something 
which speaks for itself, and tells what manner of man this, "R.M.F," was. 

Such memories are the reward of my years. 

To him who is moved to say thai there could really not he much substance 
in so few hours of face to face association. I offer these Chinese, lines: Thii 
hoar can not return: a shred of time is worth a bar of gold. 


How Far Must a Man Go— to Feed a Pet? 

byA.E. van Vogt 


Murk Gray s main pleasure in life was feeding rats to his pet python. He 
kepi the python in a blocked-*) IT room in the old house in which he lived a- 
lone. Each mealtime, he would put the. rat in a narrow tunnel he had rigged. 
At the end of the tunnel was an opening. The rat, going through the narrow 
space into the bright room beyond, automatically ;-;j wing-locked a gale across 


1 the 

vitb the pythoi 

vith i 



Mark liked to listen to its squeaks as it became aware of it* danger, and 
then he would hear its mad scurrying to escape the irresistible enemy. Some- 
times, he watched the exciting scene through a plate glass window, but he ac- 


luallv preferred the w.-Jini I" tin: »ij:ht, .■.nmiiri 

pteinrw. always from the ™ «f the (»yl 

During World War III, the U.KA. forgot to : 
Ditching of rath got no special f.rmriU. Kai . 
, rm cd forces readily*., the olher people. TV- 

Mood, he said smugh 

•Jeri of tin- imagination you 

»itb ■ 


of 1 

r, .* thai. thcr< 

pylhim was fed 


Then one da 

Mark, .vi 


window of an ol 

, imcrcia 



!■- " 

■far room mrj. . 

mly lightei 

with mM 

nv r. 

make out that i 

«an a large 


with 1 

of the cages con 

Hi: made it I 

r the front 

f Ih 


his breath, lie n 

,lict'(t the w 


.M th.' 



fji. found hi 

a ilim 


Mrvtodr w«s 

■Irarly wor 


wicc at 


title while- to a 

raet ihv att 


of on 

of tl 

wt other dell 

s such as i 

ihr forgotten i 

an. Hut aft 

r al 

(hi me 


;,,},, (».-, 


*fc> ■■ 

IS. lilt 

When Mark 

1,-wfiVii fo 


■ slKFV 


.udden, explos 

v, hunter. 



furtSy reje^.ed 


,e made a p 


al thi rip 

OUl 1 

he marled. "Si 

y away fro 

1 oil 

rats. 1 


well have tin' 1 

Until those 

words, were 


n. Mar 




It seemed Us Mark, * 

locked, and lhal th.' n 
Inimore.rlly, hal.y sill" 

ilicil Mark am! his hobhv, finished, "1 suppose it's a matter of 
Hut I won't feel *"■•■ jjiiiiS. VaHitnWK' sU«- vi.' a ks ovtr tonight 
nuil iiil.iil tries to steal some of our rats " He grinned mirth- 
iu think of; lower than a rat sl.:al.T?" 
on hesiliileil, hill only for moments. Millions of people were 
g. and it lest absolutely had to he made on a human being. Be- 
lli Hi" w i t ur n ! " th effect of surprise might 

lied, "there'll be no evidence against lift So go 

jmc stealthily hack that night, that these people 
ould never miss the equivalent of one rat a week 
.erl when lie discovered that the window was un- 
rii' was unguarded. No doubt, he thought good 
rats were in scarce supply because of war-time 

again to the familiar sound of a rat mpicaking in 

■veiling, Lis phone rang. It was Kric Plode. 

mall man in a vicious tone. "Mow. you must pay 

» issued the warning. "He it on his own soul," he 

s titer 

grimly, he , 

iiliK'U- I 

ani r 

"1 Ihin 

"Well, Hank," he sail 


The remark made 1'lode frown a little. He had a I 
thoughts, anil he had often thought recently. "Uoo.l 

M the ,,.. 
but they v 
of prisonci 

. of the 

en. s 

|> contemptuous. I .ct them try to prove anything. 

lhat nieht, he seemed to he suffocating. He woke up, and he 

n his bed hul instead was on a hard floor. He groped for the 
i could not find it. There was. a bright rectangle of light about 
iv. lie headed for it. 
e slummed shut hehind him as lie emerged. 

vasl mom, larger than anything he had ever seen. Vet it was 
r. r.xcepl for its size it resembled the room in which be kept 

in front of him, an object that he had noticed and regarded W 
,atherv rug thicket than he was tall, stirred, and moved lowMii 

dark Gray experienced the ultimate thrill of the strange 
njoyed lifi for so nuny years . . . Experienced it 
.,. nnil „.,lv lime frsrs. lb vicwi.«mit of the rat. 



potnrea tafcj 

ILLUSTRATIONS RV Tlil i^idi^ *^ 




Once upon a time, dragon-killing was the biggest sport 
in England. But the dragons, who weren't very hot for fun 
and games, decided things were getting out of hand and 
emigrated. Some just flew across the English Channel 
(whereupon the French took up the great British pas- 
time}. A few went to Argentina. A large group went to 
America, which hadn't been discovered yet and was rela- 
tively free of freaks in tin cans on horses with lances and 
all that. But most of the dragons settled in purts of 
Europe. One of these dragons was named Bruce. 

Now Bruce was sick of all the other dragons kidding 
him about his name, so he set out on his own. Quite by 
accident, he wound up In Transylvania. Since the peas- 
ants were plump and other dragons apparently avoided 
the place, Bruce was fat and happy for about a month — 
until the first full moon. 

Dragons, you see, are sensible and follow the habits of 
the people who feed them, so Bruce worked in the daytime 
and slept at night. He was understandably annoyed when 
he was awakened on the night of the full moon by a loud 
howl from near the entrance of his cave and he grumbled 
aa he peered out. There sat a wolf In peasant's clothing. 

Bruce blinked, but the wolf was still there. So like a 
true dragon, Bruce let out a good fiery belch. Now, the 
peasants In Transylvania are inclined to be garlicky, and 
Bruce had snacked late that night, so the wolf was over- 
powered by his breath and burned to death. But all Bruce 
saw was a charred peasant, and he resolved to consult an 

Just then a huge bat flew Into the cave, perched on 
Bruce'a back and bit him on the neck. 

Bruce turned his head with a great roar and glimpsed 
a pallid man in a cloak gnawing his neck. At that, Bruce 
panicked. Freaks in tin cans were bad enough, but cloaked 
men who bit dragons were too much. He shook loose his 
agitator and flew off, back to the dragon colony In Stock- 

"Boys," he said as he arrived. "Guess who dropped in 
on me tonight I" 


by W. 



The blanket of fog lay thick and strangling on the har- 
bor. Robed in the swirling vapor, the dark figure drew 
closer to the ancient ship that seemed suspended between 
the dank billowing shrouds. He leaped silently onto the 
deck of the vessel and stole noiselessly into the forward 
hold hatchway. 

The agent did his job well. The large boxes were stowed 
in even rows, readily accessablc. His efficiency would never 
be proclaimed, however, for even now his cooling, bloodless 
body awaited day and discovery In the dingy office. The 
Baron exulted as he lay down on the mouldering earth in 
the first bos and lowered the heavy !id. Soon he would 
be in reach of the more heavily populated areas of Europe. 
This time there would be no mistake. 

At what he guessed to be midnight or close to it, he 
heard heavy boots walking the deck above. The captain 

returning, no doubt. As the tide once Again reached flood, 
the creaking of block and tackle and rattle of chain indi- 
cated the ship was leaving Its Black Sea port 

After a time, in the black wooden confine! of Ids vam- 
pirlc refuge, the Baron once again tensed the approaching 
night. Catlike stealth carried him through the blackness 
of the hold onto the spray blown deck. Past several still 
figures gating Intently out on the dark sea he crept until 
at last he came up behind the helmsman. Hie bloodluat 
was strong. The Baron leaped ferociously at the broad 
back of the sailor, only to crash heavily into the great 
wheel. Amazed he real lied be had passed completely 
through the man. 

A low chuckle made the maddened vampire whirl fiercely 
to face a large man in archaic sailing dress. ' "Welcome, 
Meinhccr. I sec that you and I serve the same Master. 
I am Captain Van der Decken and the ship you have 
entered upon. . . . Melnheer, have you ever heard of Der 
Fiiegendt Hollander?" 


by Leo Tifton 

In a cave at the edge of the Desert of Salt Tears there 
dwelt a seer of such fame and accomplishment that many 
knew his name though they lived far beyond the desert's 
borders. And to the seer's dwelling place there came 
daily, pilgrims whom he turned away, having vowed never 
again to tell the future for any man. 

One day there came to him a young man In the raiment 
of a desert warrior but the seer knew him for a king and 
a man of great bravery. "Turn me not away," said the 

"For years, King, I have turned away every man who 
sought me." His voice was solemn and quiet, yet as 
commanding as the thunder of the distant seas upon rocks. 

"Do you so easily pierce my disguise?" shouted the king. 
"You are Indeed a prophet. I am determined that you 
should tell my fortune now, more than ever." 

The seer gazed upon the man and knew how great he 
was, a compassionate man of much wisdom who could lead 
a people to prosperity and peace. But In his soft voice 
the seer said, "I have ceased to tell men the future. Even 

"But I must know," protested the king. And each time 
the seer refused him, the king asked again and again until 
far in the night when the seer realised he could not sway 
the king. 

So the seer gathered kindling and built a fire of prophecy 
that in its smoke he might see this young king's future. 
And the smoke grew thick and blank so that within It 
there took shape the phantom form of the city of the king 
and the king himself, still young, no more than a month 
of days older. And the smoke showed the army of the 
king and the armies of his enemies. And the armies ,of 
his enemies pounded at the wails of the city, over sweeping 
It, slaying the soldiers of the city and, at last, the young 
and valiant king. 

The seer stared at the rising smoke and thought of 
others who had vomc to ask him of the future, He re- 
called the vow he had made and the reasons for the vow. 

Looking up at the king he said, "I see a destiny of 
greatness and a reign of greatness and plenty, of pros- 
perity and peace over a happy and blessed people." 

And the king heard and, satisfied, he left. So for a 
long time the seer sat in his cave as the fire died and the 
smoke drifted away. And when it was gone, he raised his 
voice and cried out a great curse against the darkness of 
the night 

In a chaotic region left over from the realm of the demons who held 
sway before the coming of man's gods, Cromek found the Tower- 
and a sorcerer who used him like chattel for his magic. 

by David A English 


^*he cries of his pursuers, deprived by distance of all humanity, drifted 
up the mountainside. Like the baying of hounds. Oh, very like. For 
the time being he crouched in the sparse concealment of a narrow copse 
and watched. Laxil's mamelukes wander aimlessly over the lower slope. 

Cromek was not encouraged. They would pick up his trail before 
long. And soon it would be their strength against his — and they were 
many . . . 

Maybe this would teach him better to avoid the snare* of women, he 
reflected bitterly. Although it was a litttle late 'l be making maxims 
for future guidance. The mystery-priests, most likely, had all the 
maxims he was going to need. 

He only hoped Laxil would deal as sternly with his deceitful con- 
cubine. Small chance of that, though. She was wonderfully sly and had 
probably already persuaded the old fool that Cromek had led her 
astray. Cromek laughed, not pleasantly. 

As he watched, the horsemen gathered into a tight squadron once 
more, Having picked up his trail, they rode into the pass. 

Cromek abruptly brought his thoughts back to the present. He 
quickly determined on a final sleight to gain time. 

Slapping the flank of his weary steed, he sent the animal galloping 
down the main trail. When Laxil's men emerged from the pass, the 
horse would be out of sight. Perhaps they would follow the false trace 
for a while. He doubted it. 

With hope or without it, Cromek ran to the mouth of a raw-edged 

deft that iplit the tide of the looming cliff. Even if It led nowhere, at 
least it waa narrow and would be an advantageous place to stand and 
sell his life dearly. 

He proceeded cautiously up the slide of scree that formed a kind of 
floor to the cleft. Tile debris was treacherously loose, and he did not 
want to start a rock-slide that would persist after his passing and 
betray him. 

A change in the quality of his pursuer's voices warned him that they 
had emerged from the pass. He cursed. He could not reach the upper 
end of the cleft before they came abreast of its lower opening and were 
in a position to observe him. 

In the seconds that remained, he wedged himself into a narrow 
Assure. It did not completely conceal Ilis big body, but he hoped the 
broken shadows would distort his outline enough so he would not be 

Cromck looked around, surveying the possibilities, which were few 
enough. At the upper opening of the cleft, half embedded in Broken 
rocks and gravel, stood » great boulder. He decided that he wanted 
that boulder at his back if he must stand and fight. If they succumbed 
to his trick, however, he would try lo lost himself in the mountains. 
That was all he had in the way of plans. 

Damn Lsiil's won- it- 
Down below, Cromek's pursuers wheeled and milled. Ansiously, their 
quarry peered and cocked his ear, trying to discern their intentions. 
Their voices reached him loud but incomprehensible, confused by echoes 
and the singing of the blood in his ears. 

He could not tell what decided them. Perhaps his horse, with mis- 
guided loyalty, had returned along the trail. Or some sleuth, too wily 
by half, had noticed that the hoofprints v 

t those of an animal 

lf ing a 

suddenly dismounted and began t 

climb the narrow path. 

Cromek broke from his covert and scrambled toward the boulder, the 
goal he had set himself. Facing Laxil's dosen was no pleasant prospect 
under any circumstances, but braced against that stout backstop he 
would make a moiety of them bleed before they reaped his head to 
gratify Laxil's stupid jealousy. 

When he attained the boulder, he turned to look back. They had come 
•bout half-way. But now their steps were slowing. 

They saw the advantage he enjoyed, such as it was.' And each one 
privately was beginning to fear that he might not be among those who 
went back to receive Laxil's praise. The pursuit was turning into one 
of those ludicrous races where the prise goes to the loser. 

In his impatience with its slow approach, Cromek turned from the 
creeping doom below him. In the shadowy valley on the other side of 
the ridge, he saw age-blackened r 
the brown, hummocky grass, and a 5 
gase, looked wicked and menacing. 

And even this dismal prospect, gods had decreed, he was not to 
attain. No need even to think of the broad, blue vistas of plains beyond 
that, or the snow-covered peaks of the farther reaches of the mountain 
range. These were lands of escape, lands of freedom and never-dying; 
lands, if that must be, which he would n 


urned to the o 

wordsmen of Laiil and drew his sword. 

shook it at them and whirled it about his head in the high sunlight 
until it was as a glory around him. He raved at them and cursed them, 
calling down bloody death for those who fell under its glancing beams. 

Slowly and more slowly still they came on. And Cromek grew even 
more furious that he should get his bane from such nidderings. Through 
mere numbers they would overcome him, and what renown could they 
expect from that? 

In the end it was not cunning or valor or might in battle that saved 
him. It was sheer rage and despair that finally inspired him, a will to 
survive that was ravening and mad in its intensity. 

No man in his right sense would have attempted what he did. No 
one lacking a lunatic's demon-given strength would have succeeded. 

In all the region around him tlierc was only one missile sufficient for 
his blaaing wratb. The boulder itself, the landmark on which he had 
first fixed his eye from far below. 

At first he grappled with it face to face, as one who would heave it 
up above his head and hurl it down. He was as crasy as that with rage! 
But even Cromek's mighty back was not adequate for that heroic feat. 

But he felt it wobble! He felt it move! 

It rocked— as a loose tooth might twist in its socket. 
As by a levin-bolt of revelation, vistas of possibility were illuminated 
for him. They spread out like those regions of freedom he had a 
moment before beheld. Men experiencing far less in the way of illainiiw- 


(Jon have claimed unmediated converse with the god*. 

Cromek leaped to the opposite aide of the boulder and set his back 
against it. He dug in hia heels and heaved. 

Muscles of back and legs knotted like ship's cables under hia copper; 
akin. The veins lay like tangled ropes on hia brow and sweat slicked 
his straight, black hair to gleaming rat-tails. 

The bones of hia hack crackled audibly. 

One more effort — only one more . . . and then another. 

"By the gods," he croaked, "it moves — it gives — way — " 

Nearly blind and numb with the titanic expense of strength, he hardly 
knew what progress he made— if any at all. The air seemed suffused 
with murky redness, or did the very veins of his eye-stones leak under 
the pressure? 

Then there was a sudden great rending like the bursting of his vital*. 
He thought the effort had been too much, had killed him: for in void and 
emptiness he floated, permeated with unendurable ecstasy. 

The return of hia spirit found him stretched on hia back under a 
night sky throbbing with monstroua etars. Thunder and squealing filled 
his ears, which might have been the tumbling of the boulder and the 
dying of Laxil't men ... or only ghosts of his disordered senses. 

Slowly the blackness leaked out of the sky. The monstrous stars faded. 

Cromek, staggering a little, descended to the shambles. Broken 
bodies sprawled about like pieces of a chess game that had ended in a 
fit of temper. The boulder, horribly smeared, choked the narrow 
entrance of the cleft. 

It was grisly work rummaging among the mashed company. Never- 
theless, be would need provisions for his journey. And he thought it 
fitting that I.axil should render up the parting gift he had so oafishly 
forgotten. Cromek was far too familiar with the red fruit of battle to 
let superstitious dread stay him. 

But something very like terror lunged in his guts when a voice nearby 
moaned out: 

"Cromek . . . atrange one . . . hated of the goda ... you will die 

In a moment he regained bis compoaure. _ 

"How is this?" he asked "You still live? But not for long, I think. 

How did the crumpled thing on the ground draw breath for speech r 
Its skull was soft and pulpy, a single great bruise, and the tormented 
eyes stared divergently from puffed slits. 

"You will not out-live me long," the thing panted, each word a pink 
bubble bursting. "You dare not return the way you came, and beyond 
the ridge lies the valley of the sorcerer Morophla, and the hellcat 
L'athacht " 

"Br q-.:rl, man." Cronuk growled. ' Get your dying done. 

"1 w.ll be silent long enough. You will pay for ray death. You will 
suffer worsf than I. Evil dwella in that valley, in that tower. Terrible 
e.,1 Monstrous form' and hellish tortures long drawn out. Ugly, ugly. 
Vile transformations of bodv and spirit. Tilings hideously awry. You will 
suffer it all. Y...i wi'.l pay 'for my death. You will— will- " 

The |.a.o of '■ 

whelmed him suddenly. His 

p dissulved in hlubhenng. 

"Sow llay me, Crnmrk ! Quickly!' 

Cri.mek br. his lip, then picked up the man's sword and struck off 
his head. . 

Little .-nuugh had Cr..mek liked the valley on first seeing it from 
above He liW it sti'.l less as ita ugly slopes rose above his head. The 
threats of a man half a corpse did not make it more attraetive. 

Almost willfully, crawling weeds impeded him. The tough, tangled 
stalka clung to his ankles with a kind of lechery. 

Even the rocks and pebbles had a kind of inherent wrongness. They 
seemed not to have sprung from any normal processes of weathering 
and flaking. They might have been formed in some iong-gone age when 
even the powers of air and frost were different. They resembled the 
broken forms of dreams, the haunting shapes of delirium. 

Of this aick stone were built the ruined walls that rose like the backs 
of snake* out of the long, yellow grass. 

The air grew cold as he went lower. The sun hid behind the mountain 
range and let the valley aink in gloomy twilight. A clammy mist distilled 
itself from the heavy air to freight the landscape with dire ambiguity. 

He didn't like it, walking blind into that auspicious terranl. In the 
sudden fog he could hardly make out the cruel tower that atruck like 
a fiat from a grave at the dismal sky, 

Cromek unsheathed his aword. The weapon gave him no reassurance. 
It cut easily through the fog-phsntoms that crowded close upon Mm— 
too easily to have any effect. 

He preferred fighting something which, when cat, stayed cut. 

Nearby, pebbles rattled on the path. But the m»t was too thick, 
he could not *ee the »pot wb*« bis ears placed the disturb*™*. 

Which way was he going now ? Which way out of this valley of night- 
mare? The filthy chill of the malefic fog penetrated his bonet, causing 
a dolor like the remembrance of mortality What was that? Some- 
thing panted close by. 

"Who is it?" he challenged. '"Man or devil, come no nearer—" 

Squealing laughter. He heard the slithering movement of many 
bodies, supple as rats. 

Something big and black fluttered past him and Its stinking wing 
brushed hia face. On its second paaa he was ready for it and atruck it 
out of the air with his sword. 

Softly throbbing it lay at his feet. At first Cromek thought it was 
a man with a dark cloak crumpled about him. But the cloak was actually 
part of the creature, a leathery membrane that made its longer-than- 
human arms into the winga of a bat. Its face also was a bat's, a blunt 
snout; but there was human intelligence dying in ita tiny red eyes. 

He saw then that the valley was no natural place. It was part of the 
old domain— a chaotic region left over from the confused realm of the 
demons who held sway before the coming of man's gods. 

The mist parted a little to reveal the terrible form that loomed over 

Well, now he knew. He had been driven here by the soft threatening 
and prodding of shapes in the darkness— herded like a aheep by phan- 
tom dogs. The tower hung over him. 

The door swung open, A figure slood outlined against the green. 
decaying glare from within. 

Cromek saw no advantage in flight. Nor was it to hia liking to be 
hunted down in the crawling fog, hounded by stinking bats. 

Sword raised, he charged. 

Light exploded in hia face, a fierce glare that drove like cold iron 
through the portals of his eyes, deep into hia brain, flooding it; and all 
senae, all impression rushed away from him . . . away . . . away. . . 

For the second time in too brief an interval, Cromek had to drig 
together his scattered senses. At first only cool touches and confused 
sounda reached him in the humming void. 

Then a pale oval framed in darkness moved across the quivering red 
veil that hung before his eyes. 

He moved hia hand through the veil. Strangely, it felt like many 
thicknesaea of cobwebs. But that was only the tingling in his finger*. 
The redneas cleared. 

d him. "You are indeed 
strong—to recover so quickly." 

Cromek, too sick to care, regarded her. He saw no need to act until 
he had better appraised the situation. He did not doubt it was bad, 
filthy bad. 

"You are very self-possessed, aren't you?" the woman said. "You 
stir not, neither do you question me. You would press the burden of 
speech on me, is that it, dear Cromek?" 

She laughed, lightly but not sweetly. 

"You are surprised? But I kno» loany things about you, not just 
your name Am 1 n..t L'athacht?" 

"Are you?" he said, and iha; mndi her laugh. 

He knew thai she was. A man Oian half a corpse had promised 
him this meeting ■ and worse 

Tall and well "haven, that was the fashion of her, and smooth of skin, 
which was like the snow drilled again*: a gravestone. Her hair was 
black and fragrant as the smok. of herhi -hat burn on •> demon's altar. 
But her eyes: he «n rtnund'ii of those nameless gems, dusky and 
translucent, employed hy desert tnbe»nvii in '.heir malignant rites. 

For all her comeliness, CromrL disliked her The gale she bent upon 
him was avid, '.on hungry to bode well And he had heard ill rumor* 

When he spoke it was more for relief of the discomfort he felt in 
her gaae than for desire of conversation with her. 

"You have an ugly way of greeting wayfarers. It was not my 
intention to intrude, and bad you not stricken me I would have passed 

Usthacht bared smalt, white teeth. Perhaps she meant to smile, 
but there was no kindness in it 

"That would not have pleated me, Cromek," she purred. 'But if 
the choice had been mine, a softer way would have been found of gaining 
your company." 

"Then . . . there are uthers here?" 

"One other. Now hush — he comes." 

She pressed him back on the couch and closed hi* eye* with a pact 
of her pale, cold fingers. 

The door opened with a (oft hi**, 

"Has he awakened.'" 

"Not yet, Morophla." 

"That is as you say," he sneered. "1 know your ways, lady." 

When the man called Morophla laughed, it was not an expression t>£ 
mirth. If he had Birth, it was thin and cruel as a hlade, and he kept it 
within for his own pleasure- His laughs..- seeded only to indicate con- 
tempt for the one he addresaefl A sharp expulsion of breath through 
his ilustrlig sufficed. 

"Let him feign sinofisejinisticss nil he likes — crudely though he does 
it. But let him plainly understand that 1 can at will make the fiction 
a fact." 

Uathaeht said, "I sec that my brother is phased to have another on 
whom to hone his sharp tongue. Open mm eyes, Croruck. Gaze on the 
author of your discomfort." 

Cromek did as he was bidden, not gr&refidlv. Ilia smouldering glance 
engaged with that of the tall newcomer. 

Hii eyes. Almost, Cro.uek's fell before them. A plenum, paradoxically, 
of emptiness harbored there. Cromek had seen their like only once 
hefnre, ill the eyes of a moon-priest of Ishtb, who claimed to have 
shared that sphere's monthlv decline into non-being. Morophla, too, 
had eyes that had been scoured by the obscene mvsteries of the Void. 

Warily, Cromek rose from his pallet. In n low crouch, like a wrestler 
stalking his adversary, lie eased forward. He advanced dubiously, for 
he suspected the other's powers. But at least he would take their 

Cromek's huge hand shot out. He intended to tangle it in the black 
locks of the wizard's beard and haul him off balance. 

He did not do that. His hand, extended to the length of his arm, 
closed on air several inches before the wizard's face. Hut the man had 
d at all 

Cromek jerked back from his uithrtlauced position. He had seen 
a comrade, a swordsman who had lost an eve, make similar errors. 
His own eyes teemed all right, although he was suddenly aware of an 
obscure malaise somewhere behind them. And yet, when be grabbed he 
was accustomed to getting— 

Desperately, he lunged straight at his opponent, forgetting all 
caution, with his arras flung wide. 

The lunge prolonged itself as in a nightmare, but he got no closer 
to the mocking form. Just in time, Cromek pulled up, barely avoiding 


Uathaeht caught f 
irinenting you?" 


s that 


i befool the 

-• =, ;.l)r.i 

he rattling and chuckling of their own echo. 

Instead of dying sway, the echo mounted to an ear-shattering inten- 
sity. Cromek was enveloped bv a formless, crushing pressure. The 
syllables themselves seemed to take substance and beat like the sea 
against him. He was borne back against the wall and held there. 

"He is strong, Uathaeht," the wizard commented. "I can feel the 
force he exerts against the words of power. There must be good blood 
in him." 

Uathaeht began haughtily, "Your thoughts flow always in one chan- 
nel—" But her voice broke and she grew pale. 

"It is well that it does—for both of us. You would not he half so 
lickerish, lady, did I not strive to keep the pens filled. Whjrt would 
. el ■■ wanton flesh and rounded limbs of lust, no— ' 

it are, dear sister — save that I sustain us with my science. What good 
hen your juices and your heated belly?" 

Uathaeht cringed under his words, then blubbered outright. With a 
owl, she fled the chamber. 

Morophla turned to his captive.. His strange eyes flashed. 

"She hankers for you, man. It's been ages since she's had a strange 
len to her. So it galls her you should know that her plump flesh, which 
doubt not she has shaken in your face, scarce belongs to her at all." 

Cromek gazed at him blankly. The wizard flicked him sharply on 


play at being stupid. Yot 

ditions ■ 

;o the s 

'Thus i 

,ugh su. 

-h inter 



'And th 

at is wl 

'Not ex 

actly, . 

eath thi 

'Then v 

?hat us< 

'Nothing so ter 

lit of ei 

d method my science teaches me, 

n life a: 

nd innurr 
ictions a; 

arable co 


d putref. 

id distilh 

tllv rel*. 

■ant ph.s 

es of the 


r to re-cr 

i, under v 


1 namele* 

has pres 


nen here 

about* believe thei 

re ha* 

labit thi, 


: tower." 

i had bee 

n homely by compi 


*aylay ti 


ingeons \ 

.cooped < 

mt'of thi 

; rock 

.n ample 

for my 




-as time ii 

i «ecn 

1 grows 

feeble a 

ad aneml 

;, the 

blood hi 

is become 

as '-water 

y and 

"You know a great deal,' 
of those illusion chambers i 
initiated. Morophla tangles your seeing with his magic. 

Morophla laughed, seeming to expel a bit of lint from his nostrils, 
and said, "While you are explaining matters to your .fear frcind, why 

He added bitU-Hv, "Be .oust, already divine yours." 
Uflthaeht's eyes glittered with pain and anger. Cromek still did 
not like their crazy intensity, but he sensed that in her lay his only 
hope. He pressed her baud confidentially before he started again 
towards her brother. 

Cromek could not ' ' ' 

Wtmi vigor!" 

When the wizard said eome, C 
impalpable except when he sought to 
way, wherever Morophla wished. 

Morophla took him through tape 
flights of stone stairs. One: he saw Ua 
behind an arras. The wizard did no 

Soon they entered winding tunr. 
frequently encountered the hat-things tha< 

>m»-g r 

r the 

t that v 

moved him this way, that 

ridors and dawn winding 
ale, sick face peering from 
r so pretended. 
■ the tower, where they 
attacked Cromek in the 

? parts fear 


'da, "because they spring from 
of men and demons that pop- 
hed together to do my bidding. 

"It make) 

r why j 
g filth ai 

aid Cro 

i prolong a 

would get on welt with my sister. It would be a 
meeting of minds, such as they are. It is her incessant plaint that our 
establishment is gloomy and not conducive to delight. She would have 
me, by magic, conjure here some oriental court for her to queen it over, 
replete with her personal harem of lusty. . . Cromeks, I doubt not. Not 
for her the joy of knowledge and wisdom that need never perish, the 
solemn delight of a mand able to grow through endless ages beyond the 1 
limits that mortality imposes . . .well, a thousand years of my lecturing 
have not sufficed to change her; she remains what she always was." 

"You are a great magician," sneered Cromek, "but are a great 
coward. Your dread of death is measured by the scope of yonr sorcery, 
If you delight in your mind so much, why not die and be free of the 
flesh altogether? Why not be mind only?" 

The wizard dismissed that with a sniff. "Surely you are not one 
of those who imagine that we persist as airy confections in a shadowy 
realm beyond death? Mind, sir, Is but a certain form imposed npon 
matter. Although this form or pattern can be projected forth from 
its material basis, as when in certain dreams of which I am capable I 
wander among the beings of other stars and spheres in search of wii- 


dom, it must always retain Its connection, however tenuous, with the flesh 
that harbors it. For if the flesh perishes, like a flower torn from the 
soil, so does the mind. When a man dies, he becomes nothing— forever !" 

Cromek shivered. He would have stood stil) and marvelled but for 
the compulsion that was on him. Death and non-being: it was a gulf 
that yawned at his feet, drawing him as much as it repelled him. 

"Nothing is left when the meat dies and begins lo rot?" 

Morophla smiled. "No, barbarian, it is not. The motion of mind apart 
from flesh is but a delusion 1 that our languages impose upon us. As 
are most of the questions that philosophers debate age after age. 

"And yet," the sorcerer mused, "if my mind be but a certain -form 
or image wrought in the matter of my flesh, might it not be reproduced 
in some more durable material? None of the strange beings whom I 
have visited out among the stars knows this secret, true. But who knows? 
I have not journeved far in my search for wisdom — and the universe il 

Morophla fell silent, lost in, musings, and let Cromek punle over 
his speech. It alt sounded like clown's patter to the fighting man, like 
words used to mock the pattern and flow of language but convey 

Abruptly they entered a great, vaulted chamber at the end of the 
tunnel. Cromek found himself on a narrow lip of rock that overlooked 
i gloomy pit. 

In the murk dnwn there he saw pale figures moving. White bodies 
clustered like knots of worms. He shuddered and drew back as far as 
the crowding power would permit. 

Morophla took down a torch from the wall. Vacuous faces, flabby 
and indefinite of contour, lifted to follow its slow am 

"Regard your aenana, Cromek." 

Thefr huge eves blinked repeatedly at the unaccustomed light, unable 
to turn awav. But when Ihe sorcerer withdrew the torch, all interest 
subsided. The listless milling resumed, as if with the fading of the 
faint memory trace left by the light. A squeaking chattering fight broke 
out, and a pair of man-bats, swooping lo.v, drove the quarrellers apart. 
Once separated, they quickly forgot one another and their contention. 

"You will grow used to the darlings, Cromek." 

Without much confidence, Cromek said, "Whatever your wizardry, 
you will find there arc some things in which man's cooperation can- 
not be compelled." 

Morophla snickered. 

He had reason to laugh his dirty laugh. 

The days that followed became a series of nightmares, or one long 
nightmare interrupted by sleep. And sleep itself was no respite, only 
the supcrfetalion of nightmare upon nightmare. The events and images 
of wakefulness were then redueed to rubbish and built into crazy towers 
that tottered, crumbled and fell. 

For the wizard was entirely adequate to deal with his captive's 
reluctance. There was a demon of lust that dwelt in a crusted stone 
jar, and when Morophla poured it forth, straight it flew to Cromek'i 
flesh. It did him on like a cloak, and Cromek, released from his cage 
Wider the control of some smoky demon, descended into the pit to join 
the mating-dance of the pale herd. The fife wailed and the drum rattled, 
and be knew their cold flesh, 

Stung out of sleep by some recollected horror, he awoke in his cell. 
Or had some strange sound penetrated and burst his sleep? Was some- 
one near? "It isn't time yet," he protested. But he could not know 
Wiat; time in that place was determined entirely by alternating abomina- 
tions. He steeled himself, knowing it was useless, against the demon s 

It did not come. 

Nor did he hear the fife, preparing the herd for the descent of the 
god of its sahbat. 

A husky voice whispered, "Are you sleeping, Cromek? 

"How came you here?" he snarled. "I did not hear the gate. 

Uathacht laughed. "Then I must not be here at all. For I could not 
pass through the strong ours that cage you, my magnificent animal." 

He hurled himself off the pallet and drove his fist at her taunting 
mouth. Then howled with rage and pain. His hand felt broken. 

"Nay, be careful!" she cried. "It is only a sending. You cannot 
touch me, for I am far from here." 

Cromek cursed her, a round soldierly oration full of footras and 

She said softly, "Do not curse me, dearest. I wish that I could bring 
you . . . all of me, not just my voice and seeming. For I think I love 
you, Cromek." 

"Yon are strange people, you and your brother. Your hospitality la 
strange, but your love i» most strange indeed." 

"Oh, please; it is not well that you are used thus, wasted I should 
say, on those who arc incapable of appreciating you. But you know the 
Strength of my brother's magic. I have a little sorcery, hut it is a 
pitiful thing compared with his." 

He studied her image for a moment. It was only her likeness that 
Stood before him after nil. Her figure, on close examination, seemed 
flat and followed the contour of the rugged wall, like a painted image 
that somehow moved and spoke. 

When he answered her, he spoke craftily: "Well ... if you had no 
part in my loathesome captivity, I will admit I grew angry all too 
hastily. You are too fair for me to find it easy to hate you. 

Her face went soft and vacuous at this flattery. There might be 
hope yet. . . . 

"But what good is any understanding we might come to?" be asked 
bitterly. "Your sending is not yourself, and we can have little joy of 
such assignations as this." 

Suspicion shadowed her eyes, but Cromek smiled inwardly. He did 
not fear that she would divine his true motive; no, not if her magic 
were thrice as great. As Morophla said, she was lickerish, and her 
headlong infatuation would sweep aside all misgivings. 

"And is it for the great love yo« bear me that you ask this? Or 
would you merely use me to gain your freedom, then abandon me to mj 
brother's wrath?" 

"I admit that I like not this subterranean life," he replied, nor It* 
pale, cold companions." He cast her as moony a glance as he coold 
contrive. "But one of the kindest memories I have from the world of 
sunlight is of the touch of your hand." 

While he hated himself somewhat, she mused: "What you snggeat' 
il not impossible . . . Morophla' s magic is not impregnable . . . His Mr- 
cery could be used as well by another. 

"Can I rely upon you in this, my lady? After all, he is your brother 

A masterful move, he congratulated himself: to shift the burden of 
proving good faith to her! 

"What good is that to me?" she spat. "I have no love for him, for 
he is insanely jealous and thwarts me always. Nor is It meet that • 
man should use his sister in that fashion—" 

Cromek's skin crawled at the implication. Too slowly, he recomposed 
his features, for she read the horror in his look. 

"It is not at all as you think!" she stammered. "Let me go now ... I 
must think on this ... it will take time to prepare the spell. But do 
I dare? Do I dare?" 

Her image rippled like a reflection on water; then the sending wsj 

In the days that followed he underwent alternations of hope ami 
despair. Had his unwelcome insight into her odd way of life caused 
her to repent her resolve to aid him? Indeed, bad she ever had any 
raeh notion? And was there anything she could do? Against the might 
of Morophla" s sorcery? 


Meanwhile, the monotonous horror o 

f his existence proceeded in Itl 

Accustomed channels. At intervals that 

made no sense to him, the lusty 
enact the vile sabhat. 

demon entered into him and he went to 

But not really he, for ke was only i 

I small screaming thing, an an- 

guished shrc«d of eon aciou sues s, thrust 

far back into some cranny of 

the brain. He- was only that tiny core o 

f revulsion against the aboraina- 

tions that his flesh worked with the sub-li 

uman cavern dwellers. 

Afterwards, only imagei and sensatic 

>ns remained to him. Nor could 

he bear to dwell on them and order the 

m in recollection. So they grew 

steadily more eon fused, becoming like 

a wrack of sickly dreams suoh 

as may vaguely poison the ensuing day. 

He swore the wizard would pay for 

making his own flesh detestible 

to him. But when? When? 

At length, Uathacht returned to him. 

Cromek regarded her, careful, very , 

■areful, not to betray his eager-* 

ness. He knew that he must remain i 

inreadsble to her and give her 

fancy all possible scope. 

"I came back," she said. 

"Yes; and this time you need a key 1 

o enter — like a proper person — 

And yet— and 

"I hi 



of the 

that b 

1. N 

ow he 


is spell 

"What aboi 


them ! 

v, hut now I don't know if I dare use 
rt, everything is in readiness. Three days at noon 
vith tear- streaming eyes and gathered the gleaming 
Spider's web, gathered them in my own smarting 
appointed time I might bind down my brother's 
ssed like a fly in that unbreakable web and cannot 

t the bat-things?" 
He rules th™ by spells and forces, which he cannot 
use in his present state. They would not act on their own to aid him." 
But her eyes were wild and confused. With uncertain fingers, she 
turned and turned the key on its ring. "Nothing to hinder us, then," 
he pressed. He did not trust himself to snatch the key. 
"I am afraid," she whimpered. 

Cromek said nothing. Anything he might say could only arouse her 
; but her own hot blood would he his most effective advocate. 
'.i carry on the debate within herself. 

rould n 

; hetra 

jade her answer her own question. "Don't be angry," ihe 
pleaded. "I didn't really doubt you." 

With the abruptness of one racing against the onset of misgivings, 
Uathacht unlocked the cell and ran in to him. Her long white arms 
snaked round his neck. The suddenness of the onslaught was her 



The dregs of a hundred 
swarmed in his nerves. Th. 
cried for vengeance, and that 
it seemed— was not there. In 
eck broken, 


A t 

dsions past, thwarted in their time, 
ime of a hundred unwilled embraces 
, and that which had thwarted vengeance — suddenly, 
there. Involuntary as thought itself, his huge fist— 
e lay at his feet. Her last breath sighed from her 
■iug, and before it was entirely free, siie was dead. 

at all. The only r, 

led him out of the 

Still, he would • 

He looked back 

not. Dis; 

i his head, 

t he felt « 

led thai 

t having » 

ited until s 

race before 

us" with a c 
es set- light i 

e had darkened 

In the dismal, < 
phla's Afterlings. 
cloak around his ! 
feared its teeth. 

Softly, it said: "Do not slay n 
Escape if you can." 

"If you do not attempt to stop me, the 

"No; even as the god who created 
knows us. We are but instruments of hi 
so he would not have to bargain for oi 

r, he encountered one of Moro- 
•d the ceature closely as he wrapped his 
it was small and fragile- looking;, but he 

Cromek. I offer no resistance. 

; wiaard will be angry with yon." 
nen knows them, our creator 
will. So he chose to make vt 

"I intend to slay him. Does he not will that you prevent me 
"He may. But he is bound by his sister's spell. His wilt 

Go t 

The i 

>at hesitated. 

iously, Cromek." 


rtheless, he still hai 

Cromek passed oi 

T'ffiently he found his way into the tower proper. A feeling of 
surveillance had grown upon, though he could not indicate ltf *ouKts, 
only guess it uneasily. His skin crawled, as it does before a summer 
storm. The rising tide of dread almost drove him to flight now that ha 


had the chance; but his fear of the magician's inevitable pursuit was 

While he could, he must seek out the wizard where he lay entranced 
and slay him. He thought of the horrors the magician had already 
visited upon him; and that had been only casualty, as a means to an 
end. Only a demon of perversion could imagine what he might conjure 
up in a vengeful spirit! 

But how long would Uathacht's spell retain it* power? The un- 
certainty of it was maddening. 

The tower was large, the arrangement of its rooms complex. He was 
soon confused by the innumerable turnings its corridors took., and became 
increasingly uncertain, because of their bizarre shapes, that he had 
thoroughly searched every room. His eyes burned and leaden exhaustion 
weighed his feet. Sometimes he thought that he was dreaming, trapped 
in delirium; sometimes it seemed that the tower, and he himself, were 
dreams in a madman's skull. The feeling of surveillance grew. 

He had searched a hundred rooms, corridors, closets. In rooms fitted 
like laboratories, filled with strange instruments and papered with 
Incomprehensible diagrams, he hunted frantically. He had found curi- 
ously-shaped vessels filled with blood in various stages of decomposition, 
vats in which Afterlings took form in the midst of unspeakable corrup- 
tion, and innumerable manuscripts, some of them crumbling with age, 
in what he took to be Morophla s hand. But nowliere could he find the 

izard himself. 


left off tearing the tapestries from the walls of an unused a 
encc chamber. "Enough of this!" he muttered. 

He suddenly understood that his increasing confusion, the feeling of 
surveillance, were the doing of the wizard. Even bound by a prepotent 
spell, he could still watch and subtly twist Cromek's seeing— 

The Afterling had said Morophla h 

"And s. 


vent quickly to the storeroom adjoining one of the laboratories, 
in haste lest the unseen Watcher divine his purpose and prevent him. 
Prying open the strange- figured urns of chemicals, he soon found what 
he wanted. 

He carried the heavy vessel to the ground floor and began to dash 
its contents on the wooden flooring and walls. A sharp, resinous odor 
filled his nostrils. 

And suddenly— Morophla was there! 

The wizard's rage-distorted countenance glared down upon him. 
Cromek shrank hack. In a moment that terrible will would enter into 
him like the fingers of those puppeteers you saw in basaars. 

But that did not happen, and he understood why. "So you are come 
to this, Morophla. No longer do you come like a mighty wave, to toai. 
the wills of your victims like shells on a beach. No; the worst you can 
contrive now is to project your image and trouble me with your ugly 
face, or twist my seeing a little like a hairless old woman engaged in 

The wavering form spoke: "Beware, Cromek. Though limited by 
that slut's spell, I might yet overcome you." 

Cromek laughed and capered. 

"But why speak of that?" Morophla said, as one who would dismiss 
harsh words spoken thoughtlessly between friends. "Surely it was 
no Insult, rather a compliment, that you were chosen. And were the 
labors enforced upon you so terrible? 

From a heart charred black with horror, Cromek answered: "Yes — 
more than filth like you could conceive. I have reason enough to slay 
you, Morophla. 

"Be lenient, man, and see if I do not reward you. I can give ■, 

He promised much, but Cromek only continued to pour out v. 
flammable liquid, a little lingeringly now. When the urn was empty, 
he took a torch from its socket and moved to the door. "I cannot find 
you, but the fire will. ..." 

Mrophla, beside himself with rage and frustration, seemed almost 
to lose control of his sending. His grotesque figure, now swelling, now 
shrinking, writhed and twisted acrosB wall and ceiling. It danced 111 
a flame, like a flame already. 

"How can you?" he raved. "Darken eyes that have looked on the 
distant marvels of other stars and spheres? Burn the brain that har- 
bors the lost secrets of the gods, the most interior mysteries of matter 
and energy? No; put up the torch and I will make you co-equal with 
me, share my power and my immortality with you." 

Cromek hurled the torch. Flame leaped up with a snarl like a lunging 
beast. The wizard shrieked. 

The hot glare brought tears to Cromek's eyei. He backed towards the 


door, watching the flames mutter sod gnaw at the wooden panels. The 
tapestries turned to falling, flaming iacework. 

"You animal, you cretin!" the wizard gibbered. "You've destroyed 
me— but you will die with me!" 

Cromek reached for the door, but before he touched it It burst In- 
ward. A great, threatening confusion bore down on him — something 
that thundered like a stampede, or roared and clanked like a host of 
men-at-arms. He couldn't put a name to it; he could only give way 

He was driven back through the wall of flame and up the smoky 

The attack-— but what attacked? — came on and on, continously 
squealing and gibbering. Its high-pitched wail paralysed thought; only 
the instinctive reaction of flight was possible. 

And suddenly it became an enormous mouth in which innumerable 
teeth clashed and ground together. But when it overtook him, it only 
gnashed impalpably around him for a moment — 

Then vanished! 

"Yes, Cromek; only an illusion," said Morophla. "But you know 
that too late. The fire has already cut off your escape and you must 
perish with me." 

He smiled sourly. "But don't bother to repent having rejected my 
offer. I should not have kept that bargain anyway. This is the only 
fellowship we two can have — in the Are, which has a trick of levelling 
all flesh. I could not have raised you to my level, although you have 
reduced me to yours. 

Cromek, no philosopher, ignored him. Before a wall of hot gases 
he fled up the tower stairs. He could hardly draw breath to eurse the 
sorcerer, whose sending drifted always before him. 

The projected image changed from moment to moment. Not only 
did it ripple and flicker as it drifted like a shadow or a flame along the 
walls and stair-treads, but it underwent other transformation*, more 
painful to see as well. 

"Yes, murderer, it is your work. The flames have found my body 
where it lies bound by the Sun Spider. Oh, you cannot imagine how 
painful it is. But I need not describe it; you will learn soon enough. 
Of course, you have the option of leaping from the roof. No option 
really; you will inevitably do so when the fire touches you. ..." 

Cromek could scarcely see the stairs and corridors along which he 
fled. But the image of Morophla's disintegrating corpse remained with 
him always, sealed within his ciosed eyes; its voice droned in his ears. 

"I hate you, murderer!" the thing screamed. "Not just for the 
agony I endure. Even if I had to endure it as long as I lived, I would 
still choose to survive. For there is much that I would yet leam in the 
vaitness of the cosmos and the vastness of the mind — matters that you 
and that bitch with your little, animal minds could not conceive of. I 
hope you don't die outright when you leap from the tower. Be a long 
time dying with the ache of mangled nerves, bone splinters piercing 
your guts — 

The ooxing, blackened horror shimmered and faded. 

"No; I can't follow you anymore. Wanted to see you dying— but I 
can't — not strong enough — anymore. ..." 

Gone: leaving only a dying curse. 

Cromek crawled onto the roof, gasping. Night. Those star* whose 

marvels the wizard regretted appraised him and found him of little worth- 
Already the boards were hot under his feet. From the trapdoor 
through which he had come, the flames leaped: a pillar of fire which, 
like Morophla's spirit, clutched at the stars. While he watched, m 
cluster of strange instruments, gleaming copper tubes and lenses, sank 
through the roof, engulfed by a muttering mouth of fire. 

The tower was high and its walls of closely fitted stones appeared 
almost smooth. Staring hopelessly down, Cromek felt the dutch of 
the gulf at his loins. His belly crawled with its cold stroking. 

Nevertheless, he had to attempt that impossible descent. Better to 
have his last moments absorbed in sume arduous task than to sit waiting 
for the fire to eat through the roof. 

Lowering himself over the edge, he sank almost to the length of hi* 
arms before his foot found what purported to be a toe-hold. With one 
hand on the ledge, he supported himself while he fitted blunt finger* 
into a narrow cranny. The effort was tremendous: it seemed that bone 
must crack, muscle or tendon tear. 

He flattened himself against the wall like a vine or lichen. It wa* 
insane, he knew that— already sinews stuttered their plea for release 
from a task beyond their capacity. And still he persisted, relinquishing 
each impossible toe-hold only to seek another. . . . 

He knew that eventually he must fall — drop like a dead fly. But 
it would not be willingly. Never would bis soul cry, enough! and order 
his cramped fingers to open. 

It came as no suprise, however, when his bleeding fingertip* llid 
from their precarious clutch. 
He fell. 

It was strange when you felt. At such a time, when your weight 
was most active, you felt no weight at ell. Almost you were bodiless, a* 
in dreams when you drift like smoke across some broken landscape. 
The wind, like his own cry, sang in his ears. 

There came a beating of leathery wings round his head. Clawed 
fingers sank into the muscles of his arms and bore him up. Hi* fall 
was not halted, only slowed, and he dropped, struggling in the hand* 
of his rescuers, until the earth smashed his knees up into his chest- 
When be could breathe a little, Cromek gasped out, "I thank yon for 

The Afterling said, "We thank you for ours, now truly ours. In 
slaying our creator, our god, you set us free." 

"God-slayer. ..." Cromek smiled. "Among my people it is the 
bestow vaunting titles : but never have I heard one so grandlote. 

You a 


Wouldn't you?" 
Cromek glanced skyward and did not answer. 

They gave him food and drink, and would have had him remain with 
them, but this last he refused. "You might come to look an me a* joor 

He departed along the winding road, the road downward out of the 
mountains. As the stars faded and morning came, his thoughts returned 
to Moropbla. He did not understand why he should be at such effort* 
to prolong a life which, to Cromek, seemed only a mounting o 
and horror. 

He ihook hi* head and tried to think of other thing*. 

I* 1 


The change came, turning him into the killer beast. 
But the change faded with morning. . . 




He stood hidden in the shadow of the tree, its bark biting into his naked 
back, his ears straining for the sound of the crunch of leaves beneath the 
hunter's feet. The hunter, a moving shadow among a forest of shadows, passed 
the tree never knowing how close he was to his prey until it was too late. As 
the hunter passed the man came suddenly behind him and strong hands closed 
tightly against the hunter's throat. The hunter tried to cry out, to struggle 
free but could not The fingers dug tighter into his throat until he ceased 
his efforts. 

Overhead, the moon full and bloated, drifted indifferently. 

When the killer was finished he stood over his victim for a minute until 
breath returned, then bent and stripped his victim. He was naked and very 
cold, in need of clothes, and the hunter was close enough to his size. When 
he was dressed, he found a sharp pointed rock and began very carefully rip- 
ping the flesh from his victim. 

It was very important that the hunter look as if he were killed by an ani- 

mal, he felt. The rock was not a perfect instrument to simulate claw and teeth 
marks, but it waB good enough. Presently he stood hack from his work, look- 
ing down at it indifferently. It was good. It was necessary. 
He turned and moved into the trees. 

He waB a young man, not tall, but lean and guant in the way that a wolf is 
lean and guant. He moved among the trees with surenesfi, despite the dark- 
ness and his movement was loping, almost athletically graceful and quite 
soundless. He moved with such assurance that it came as a complete surprise 
to him that he suddenly stepped into a clearing and found himself face to 
face with another hunter and that hunter's rifle aimed straight at his chest. 
"Damn!" the hunter said. "Boy, you don't know how close you came to 
getting yourself killed." 
"I-I'm sorry," he said. 

The hunter lowered his gun. He gave a rasping chuckle. "God damn, that 
would just about do it. Bagging another hunter instead of whatever it is we're 

"The wolf," the gaunt man said. 

"That's right, the wolf." The hunter peered through the darkness at him 
a minute. Overhead light from the full moon poured down, catching the youn- 
ger man's face. n 
"Say, 1 don't know you, do I?" the hunter asked. "What's your name? 
He was hesitant only a moment. "Mann," he said. 

"Mann. You're not from around here, are you? I'd know you if you was. 
I know everybody in these parts. Hey-what happened to your gun? 

Mann realized he had taken the dead hunter's clothes, his knife, his boots- 
everything but the man's gun. 
"Well?" aBked the hunter. 

"I-I lost it. Back there." He pointed roughly in the direction from which 
he came. 

The hunter came toward him, peering at him intently. "You all right, bud- 
dy? You seem to be a little. . . I don't know. Flustered, maybe. You see some- 
thing back there? Something maybe caused you to drop your gun? " 
Mann did not answer. 
The older man put a hand on his shoulder and when he spoke, his voic 

was mure friendly, n 


"Now, c 

y about it. I know what 

.„ „ nething that scares you. It's no disgrace. They's two of us now. 

We can go back and look for it together. The idea of people hunting seper- 
ately at night is plain foolishness anyhow, right? " 

Mann nodded, unable to think of anything else. "Yes,," he said. 

"Now well go back and take a look for your gun and for what made you 
drop it, right? That's the way. My name's Charlie Henderson, incidently." 

Mann managed a smile. He turned and started back into the woods, Hen- 
derson behind him. 

He retraced his steps, swearing at himself for forgetting the gun. Henderson 
was smart-end alert. He wouldn't be so easy to catch as the other hunter. 

Near where the mutilated corpse was, Mann slopped and looked about as 
if trying to get his bearings. 

"This the place?" Henderson asked. 

Overhead the moon was full* Mann looked around again. "I think so." 

"Well if you dropped your gun it should be around here, somewhere, 
shouldn't it?" 


'Then let's have a look for it, all right? " 

Mann nodded. He looked around, saw nothing. He turned and saw Hender- 
son carefully probing into sumo hushes. Henderson looked up at him. "Well, 
get looking," he said, 

Mann probed and prodded into the underbrush, pretending to search for 

"It doesn't Beem to be around here," Henderson aaid after a while. "You 
sure this is the place-?" 

"No. Not sure." 

"It's pretty dark tonight, even with that moon. I guess maybe one part of 
the wooda looks like another part. Let's move on. You feel like telling me 
what happened?" 

But before Mann could frame an evasion there came a sound. It was the 
sound of something moving through underbrush and both men whirled to- 
ward it At the edge of the clearing a wolf crouched-and ae the men whirled, 
the wolf sprang. 

With a snarl of pure hatred, the creature leaped straight for Mann, fangs 
bared, ripping toward the man's unprotected throat. But Mann ducked and 
rolled to the ground with greater speed than he seemed capable. The wolf 

landed harmlessly and turned for another attack. Henderson raised his gun 
but before he could fire, Mann was on his feet, rushing toward the wolf. Be- 
fore the creature could gather itself for a second attack Mann was on its back, 
snarling and growling like a wolf himself. Moonlight glinted from his hunting 
knife as it raised up and plunged downward, again and again. The wolf cried 
in agony, thrashed, trying to free itself of the human. But it could not. Again 
and again Mann's hunting knife plunged home. Within seconds the wolf stop- 
ped its cries, its thrashings. 

Mann, shaken and fighting for breath, stepped away from the dead animal. 

"Damn it all, I ain't ever seen anything like that," Henderson said, after a 

He took Mann by the arm and led him to a log. "You sit for a minute, get 
your wind back, alt right?" . 

Mann nodded, sat, holding the knife limply in his right hand so that blood I 
dripped from the point to splatter on the leaves. 

Henderson went back and examined the wolf. "That's sure a big one," he 
said. "And it went right for your throat, just like it knew who you were and 
had a hatred of you. This what scared you?" 
Mann was still too shaken to talk. 

Henderson got to his feet, puffing with the effort. "Son of a gun, 1 never 
seen a night like this one. Out hunting a thing nobody understands, a thing 
1 don't rightly believe in anyway. And 1 see u man kill a wolf, just like that, 
with a knife. Just like old Tarxan tearing into one of them jungle lions. What 

'That the one we're hunting?" 

"Likely. Of course it hasn't turned back into a man. Do werewolves turn 
back into a man when they're killed or do they wait for sun-up? Course, I 
don't believe in werewolves. These full moon killings don't prove it was a 
werewolf, that's a lot of poppycock, anyway you look at it. I guess the moon 
drives wolves crazy, is all. They howl at the moon, sure enough. You don't 
believe in werewolves, do you?" 
"Yes, 1 do." 

"You do? You got the look of an educated man about you. I figured you 
wouldn't believe in nothing like that. Well, I'm going to take a look around. 
There might be another wolf around. " 
"Good idea," Mann said absently. 

Henderson moved into the darkness. Mann seated on his log, looked up at 
the sky: the moon, full and yellow as if it were about to burst with its ripe- 
ness. A ripeness of evil. What was it doing to him? Turning him against his 
own. . . Turning him into a killer. . . But soon the sun would be up and it 
would be over for a while. 

He sat on the log waiting. He knew the direction in which Henderson had 
gone and it was just a matter time. 

And sure enough then came the sound of Henderson calling him. 
Mann moved into the trees toward Henderson. He found him standing over 
the mutilated corpse. 

"It's Fred Riley," Henderson said. Looks like that wolf, all right. But hie 
clothcB are gone. Who could have taken his clothes? 

HenderBon's back was to him. Mann didn't take the time to explain things. 
He drove his knife through the cloth of Henderson's jacket, through his shirt, 
into his back in the region between the shoulder blades. Henderson cried out. 
Mann jerked the knife out, plunged it in again. Henderson fell dead. 

There was no time now, no time to rend the body. Not even time to pull 
the knife out. Soon the sun would be up. Soon- ; . 

Mann moved away from the two bodies. Through the trees he thought he 
could detect the faint lightening of the night sky in the east. He slopped. 
There was no time. ' 
He undressed. 

He dropped the clothes on the ground at his feet and stood naked as the 
sun rose. He felt the change that gripped him, the horrible agony of meta- 

The change. . . . 

He dropped to his knees, unable to stand erect. His hands fell upon the 
damp leaves. He could feel his body begin to melt and flow into the other 
shape, nil shape. He felt fur growing on his back and sides; his face chang- 
ing, the nose and chin elongating into muEile. 

The sun was rising. , , 

As daylight colored the sky in the east a wolf stood beside a discarded 
pile of clothes. It turned, detecting the scent of its enemy, man. It's hack- 
les seemed to rise and it gave a low, meaningful growl. 
Then loped away. 



Senr! all letters intended for publication to The Reader's Eyrie, COVEN 13, 
P. O. Box 1331, Atlanta, Ueorpa, 30301. 

When we took over COVEN 13 we sent letter- to all subscribers as well as 
placing some notice" in fsn |iiibl;<;;!!soiis. fjO<;.'**, referred to in simif of the 
letters below, is a neWfeH-tr et>v*rteg the science ficlitm and fantasy field, 
edited bi-weekly by Chart;* Hfowt,, 21S78 Ai.Lhony Ave, Bronx. N.Y. 10457. 
Subscriptions are (2.0(1 for 1 issues. 

And while we're, being!*) free with plugs, we'd like to mention the AGACON 
'70, a convention of science fiction and fantasy fans, readers and writers to he 
held in Atlanta at the Howell House Hotel, August 14-16, 1970. Well be 
there, anxious to discuss fantasy, COVEN 13 anrl just about any other subject 
thai comes up, with any reader, fan or writer who'll listen to us. Guest of 
hwknr at the eiiiivt-ntifssi will bf tiif; scdoiiblisWs' Ssm Mo-ykuwitK. aitlhojuirftt 
and historian of the field. Also on hand, novelist* Joseph Green and Richard 
Meredith among many u there. Attending membership is 12.50. Information 
from Glen T. Brock, Box 10005, Atlanta, Ga., 30310. 

Now, on to the letters: 


To help ub decide the sort of stories you want to see in SORCERY, 
please rate the stories in order of preference 1, 2, 8 . . . etc. List ties, 
if you feel any stories tied for any position. If you feel a atory was 
outstanding, please indicate with a check mark beside your rating. 
Stories you feel to be bad, please mark with an "X." 

THE MOMENTARY GHOST How do you rate 



THE HATE—-- - - 

r features? 







As a subscribe 

and f 


r contributor 

to COVEN 13, let 

>:. ■■•■i;V3's.U- 

late mm for contii 



<?::r';i ttiK«at.i1w 


pleased to re 

d such stories as 

"Odilc"hy Alan C 



::<>."■■ lo Mouftlii<hi"bt J? 

i! W. Cirrili, 

and "The Little P 


>y Robert E, How 

ard. If 1 mention m 

.re it would 

be like listing aimc 


ry. 1 have enjo 

ed the articles in Ml, Bonk and 

Tirol. Not only dc 

they r 

fl P 

t or support ih 

■■ theories presentee. 

in the maafl- 

sine's fiction, but 

rlso & 

t a history io which we are not 


One thing I've e 



ut CO VBNI3 

s that the most ama 

"■<■ »■,,-„]>: 

those which can 

e mos 


t occur, as one wo 

)ifl jUi»po'f 

during the blncke 

1 peno 


f nkdrt. They 

appen brightest da 

!l»hi 3P!\ HI 

ropose in making COVEN 


WITCHCRAFT, MAGIC and OCCULTISM, a fascinating survey of 
the influence on both ape-men and men of magic, witchcraft and 
occultism. Covers voodoo, shamanism, elemental, satyrs, the Black 
Mass, magical fraternities, etc. Excellent for reference. Paper, $2. 
WITCHCRAFT THE SIXTH SENSE— another book for the reader 
seriously interested in this subject. Paper, $2 
THE TAROT AND THE BOHEMIANS. For the reader who Is in- 
terested in the Tarot and the Tarot Cards. Paper, $2. 
DARKNESS WEAVES— a novel by Karl Edward Wagner In the 
Robert E. Howard tradition. Kane is superhuman, centuries old, 
part hero and part ageless monster. Thrill to his adventures as he 
battles the forces of darkness . . . Pocketbook, $1 pp. 
GODMAN by John Bloodstone. A novel in the Burroughs-Merrltt 
school, Godman is myth, fantasy and science in a spellbinding 
adventure by the man who wrote the unpublished—and apparently, 
not to be published— story dealing with the Burroughs character 
Tarzan and his adventures on Mars. Paperback, $] pp. 



wner«hip did r 

ot please, and 1 tfe 

not look 

forward to whr-' lie II 



Witchcraft, H 


might have become. 

What this world rie 

ens is n 

)t tl 

* "unlv all fan 

asy maaasine in th 


speaking world, but 




and sword-anc 

sorcery are fields 

f them- 

.selves, lutally differcn 


r and the sup 

rualural and the pFaeSce <:'■ 

witchcraft. 1 don't lik. 



n either, hut : 

m not condemning 

fisniasi . 


.n; I'm lookii 

ich will 

concern itself solely w 

Ih wba 



pe rualural. 

Horror and the Sltpcruatlll 

identical for 

le, and authors sue 

as Poe, 

Eiiercc, Uveeraft, |am 

>s, ife 

d, Wheatiey a 

ud t. Chater (in th 

l.isi !<■■ 

sue of COVEN 13} ar 

the wr 


of this kind of fiction. 8o 1 do mil 

i"i'i~ ; i'i- 

1 Will enjoy much of 

what v< 

ir ir 

agaaine offers 

in the future, but 

wii! si- 

low my subscription f< 

xpire and dur 

COVEN 13 a chance. 

Gothi, ally 

Cordon R. 



of fourteen stories by Emil Petaja, 

A limited edition of this great collection of fourteen of the 
author's best short stories is now in preparation and will be ready 
for release before the end of this year. Fantasy Publishing Com- 
pany's first cloth-bound book since I9S51 

Emil Petaja has had one hundred and fifty stories published 
since he sold his first story to Famsworth Wright for WEIRD 
TALES. His stories have appeared in English anthologies and have 
been translated into Spanish and Swedish. 

Perhaps it is fate that his first book should be published by 

Fantasy Publishing Company, since his very first story was printed 

in UNUSUAL STORI ES in the middle 30's by Bill Crawford, founder 

of F.P.C.I. Anyway, we're happy to be publishing books again. 

Strange and unusual jacket design by Hannes Bok. 


Send Your Orders To 

F. P. C. I., Book Deph, 1855 W. Main St. Alhambra, Ca. 91801 

How do you rate 
SORCERY'S artists? 

What did you like most 
about SORCERY? 

JiURRF, - 


Comments?—- • 

Your name and address: 

nig notice in Locus, sure tin,,,: vour ( 

(H f m IH project is a 

the first two issues, l,ul must ! 

mention the .Serial hy Keaveny 1 hooe 

„U don 'I plan locom- 

mih thin^. though 1 realize rau mav liu- 

: no choice. 

ssiies, til.- onlv t»o .lories 1 found w..r 

Shad.m Trader." The 'Welsh' hard Wa. 

len Minis strikes me a* 

pireil. . . Also -loppv- -isn't the nossessiv 

■ nf liiiini supposed 

On pas-: ,2 of the second issue he 

. use fan artists is gnnrl, there are quit 

a lew around thai are 

lau what CW/vV has heen usinj:. 1 d< 

efi'J.ines and 1 lie rest wis even Ivors. 

u that you mention, you should t.y 1, 

irel Alicia Austin (who 

t hevorid the fabulous Ueardsley inula 

oris she started with), 

Tim Kirk. And maybe you could Inn 

Walt >inionson away 

Mease cut out and mail this coupon to READERS POLL, WITCH- 
CRAFT (ta SOEEHY, P.O.Box 1831, Atlanta, Ga. 80301. If you do not 
wish to mutilate your magazine you may use a separate piece of paper or 
a postcard. Or semi a letter. Your ideas are always of interest to 
WITCHCRAFT & SORCERY's editors. Thank you. 

us. I think ralhci 


Cloth bound 
THE SHIP OF ISHTAR by A. Merritt, Borden edition, new condi- 
tion. A beautiful production of Merritt's great story of a man who 
is carried sixty centuries back through time to the weird world of 
The Ship. Interior illustrations by Virgil Finley. Still only $3. 50. 
UNDER THE MOONS OF MARS by Sam Moskowitz. A reprinting 
of portions of a number of early fantasy yarns from ARGOSY magi- 
zine, with some hundred and fifty pages by Sam M, devoted to 
the history of fantastic fiction in the Munsey publications. No 
one really interested irv the field can do without it. $7.75. 
HELLFLOWER is an inhibition-destroying drug which the Solar 
Anti-Narcotic Department and Charles Farradyne, discredited space 
pilot, must stamp out. Exciting fantasy by George O. Smith. $2.75, 
THE RAT RACE is a scintillating fantasy from the pages of Collier'! 
magazine about a personality transfer caused by an atomic e 
plosion. By Jay Franklin, Alternate ending. $3.00. 
THE SWORD IN THE STONE. Famous fantasy by T. H Whr 
Used copies, excellent condition. No wrappers. $2.50. 
MISTRESS MASHAMS REPOSE. Also by White. Condition ex- 
cellent. No jackets. $2,00. 

DELUGE. 5. Fowler Wright's best known fantasy. Conditioi 
cellent. No jackets. $2.00. 

We also have Grosset and Dunlap editions of many of the Tarzan 
books, such as Lord of the Jungle, Tarzan and' the Ant Men, Tar- 
aan and the City of Gold, Tarzan the Untamed, and many Double- 
day Book Club editions of such fantasy titles as C L. Moore's, 

Doomsday Morning, Jerry Sohl's Point Ultimate and Costigan's 
Needle, Max Erhlich's Big Eye, Mantley's 27th Day, Macintosh's 
Born Leader, Castle's Vanguard to Venus and Satellite E-l , Tucker's 
Time Bomb, Gantz' Not In Solitude and many more. $1.00 each. 
Also one and two copies of many very little known fantasy titles. 
Let us know your wants. 

THE SUNKEN WORLD by Stanton A, Cobleni. Modern submarine 
discovers a glass-domed city beneath the sea. $1.50 
SCIENCE and SORCERY a collection of fantasy and science fiction. 
Each story an example of a certain type or style. Ray Bradbury, 
Cordwainer Smith, Isaac Asimov and James Mac Creigh, Stanton 
Coblentz, Arthur Burks, Sam Moskowitz, J. T. Oliver, etc. $1.75 
DROME by John Martin Leahy. A classic novel of science fiction 
from the pages of early WEIRD TALES. Drome is an alien, un- 
canny world of mystery and terror, $1.50 

THE DARK OTHER by Stanley G. Weinbaum, Two independent 
personalities in one human, with seductive Patricia the catalyst 
that brings the evil one to life. $1.50 

OUT OF THE UNKNOWN, A. E. Van Vogt and E, M, Hull, Six 
exciting tales of weird-fantasy by a famous writing team. $1.50 
THE UNDESIRED PRINCESS by L Sprague de Camp. Fast paced 
fantastic adventures of a modern man in a barbaric world of mirth 
and madness. (Few copies left) . $2.00 

F. P. C. I., Book Dept., 1855 W. Main St. Alhambra, Ca. 91801 



Next Issue's lead novelet is THE DRAGON'S DAUGH- 
TER hy E. Hoffmann Frier., a story of Taoist magic in 
ancient China. It's the story of a man wrongly disgraced 
and impressed into the Imperial Army, from which he 
deserts. It's the story of the two women in his life, one 
of whom is the Dragon's Daughter, and of the gift of magic 
she gives to him. It's a gift that can only he used once and 
therefore must be used wisely. But chuosing the time to 
use hut a single gift of magic can he difficult indeed. . . 
Steve Fabian illustrates this one, adding to the fun. 

Other veteran writers on hand will he August Derhth 
with GHOST LAKE, the story of a lake with it's own 
unique hrand of water pollution; and Emit Fetnja, whose 
.lory TOMORROW'S MASK features a very unusual 

But there'll be i 

capable of keeping pace even with such superior writers 
as Price, Derlcth and Petaja. 

David English, for example, returns to SORCERY for 
the second time with THE HUNGRY GHOSTS, the story 
of a man who knows a way to kill by invading dreams — 
hot who cannot guess the penalty exacted bv dreams. THE 
HUNGRY GHOSTS is a powerful and moving story and 
hliixihl eslnljJinli David English us one of the most important 
writers of fantasy today. Don't miss it. 

And don't miss S1LVERHEELS, hy Glen Cook— a. 
story of heroic fantasy with a most unusual hero. This 
is, we think. Cook's first story— but it won't be his last. 

Pius other stories and the usual features Including 
Ji-tininrm' WITCH WAYS, E. 11a ff mam Price'* JADE 
TALES, illustrated by Tim Kirk; and some surprises. 
—Gerald W. Page 


by Saliirha Grey 

Once upon a time there was a dragon named George. 
Being the ninety-third child of very religious parents, 
he was stuck with the only saint's name they could think 
of. Well, it was bad enough for a young dragon to have 
grown up among the jeers of his companions but when the 
Pope struck St. George from the list hecause he doubted 
whether St. George really lived... The dragons knew 
St. George was real, all right, but they never really 
appruved of him, so George Dragon had to put up with 


Now George had a talent he thought lie could use so 
that other dragons would love and respect him. Under 
certain conditions, George could miraculously increase his 
powers so that he became nearly invincible. He decided 
he would become George Superdragon and go around 
doing good deeds among his own kind. In order to a- 
ehieve the change, however, he had to read a new fantasy 
story to create the proper atmosphere and then say 
"Chrysophylax" very fast eight times. 

After much ki-ji reliing, George found a magazine to suit 
his needs. It contained a plentiful supply of new fantasy 
fiction and was published bi-monthly. And that is why 
you've never heard of George Superdragon before this. 

You see, George took out a subscription. Came the 
first issue and he selected a good deed and began to read. 
Cn fortunately, he couldn't decide on just one story. The 
artwork was so appealing and the stories so varied and 
entertaining that he couldn't resist reading the whole 
issue from cover to cover (including the editorial) and 
hy the time he finished saying "Ch rysuphylax" eight times 
very fast, he was three weeks late for his first grand 
rescue. He was driven hack to his cave in dishonor, but 
lie didn't mind. He lives there happilv, eagerly awaiting 
the arrival of the next issue of WITCHCRAFT & SOR- 

Get the Point? Witchcraft & SORCERY contains the 
finest macabre fiction being published anywhere today. 
Great weird tales, fantastic fantasy and the most exciting 
heroic adventure fantasy. Beautifully illustrated by Fab- 
ian. Kirk, Surge, Jennings, Frits, Jones and others. For 
the best written, most exciting and most unique fiction 
value around today, follow George's advice and subscribe 
today. You can subscribe for six full Issues of the most 

modern fantasy magazine in the world for only $3.0(1. 
Twelve issues for $6.00! Use the handy order form on the 
oppoefti P n S^i or — if you don t want to mutilate the mag- 
azine, send us your name and address oo a plain piece of 
paper, along with your check or money order. But hurry 
so you won't miss the next great issue 1 


Robfft E. Howard 
Mote episodes ahout the fabu- 
lous gent from Bear Creek. Breck- 
inrid«e Elkins, are gathered here 
for the First lime in hook form, 

Like its predecessor, A CENT 
Breckinridge Elkins hook is no 
ordinary western, When von fio- 
il you may agree with a grow- 
; number of readers that Brecli- 
id'ge is no less a hero than Con- 
Mi the Barbarian or Solomon Kane 
or any of the other heroic charac- 
ters from the talented pen of 
Rohe.rt E. Howard 

Price $2.00 


», j n . -k mtttomton DARKER THAN YOU 

A tlir.u,,,, ,, n .,, 1 ,r 1 wvtm y« u rau lom Urn- ,U J v ' h W:l ' ' ,,1S '" 


HI) be HrpUlnad j 

Two beautiful Fantasy Press first 
editions — "The Legion of Time" 
published 1952 in the original green 
cloth binding, "Darker Than You 
Think" published 1948 in handsome 
gray variant binding. 

a theory nctt L0 UUmputDgK I 

Under The 
Of Mars 


Edited by Sam Moskowit z 


THE PATHLESS IRAILbv Arthur O, Friel 60$ 

I HF MOON OF SKULLS by Robert E. Howard 60? 
THE HAND OF KANE by Robert E. Howard 75? 


Hie basic premise of "Time-Lost" books is swashbuck- 

Die action, The netting is almost 
range to civilization, li may be 

:il. flavored by the fertile imag- 
id sorcery exploits of Solomon 
is in Robert E. Howard's THE 

ling high adventure and he 


i realm that 

the fearsome jungle of Bra 
million nl Arthur 0. Friel j 
Or ii may be the sword a 
K«ne in AUaniean Negnri 

Here is a unique and huge book that is, 
perhaps, the greatest science -fantasy his- 
tory 'anthology ever! 

A 70,00(1 word history tit the Scientific 
Romance — a nostalgia trip into the days of 
the old pulps. If you have owned, or seen, or 
heard of any of these magazines, this be- 
comes so much more than history. Look at 
the chapter titles and sec what is in store. 

Look at Ihe list of nine stories that are 
alsu a partof this book; glorious fiction it is. 
Bold, marveluusly adventurous, imaginative, 
fascinating, relaxing -- wr when the 

world was so much larger Aid uncomplica- 
ted. Great reading today, and yet material 
that couldn't be written today. 


The compiler of this unbelievable anthol- 
ogy/history has inscribed copies of this title 
lor us to supply to our customer*. We be- 
lieve ii is destined to .become a desirable 

i cut - 

.j fire; 

■eading thrill lor 

The Pathless Trail - Friel 

The Moon of Skulls - Howard 

The Treasure of Atlantis - Dunn 

The Hand of Kane - Howard 

The Pride of Bear Creek - Howard 

The Legion of Time - Williamson 

Darker Than You Think - Williamson 

Under the Moons of Mars - Moskowit z 

All books postpaid. Minimum order $2.00 

Make check or money order payable to: 



West Kingston, Rhode Island 02892